The young, the restless and the nubile
know well the hot, moist breath of
hormonal desires. They know, with the
confidence of the young and the callow
that life commences at 16, goes into
steep decline approaching 30, and arrests
itself bleakly at the end-destiny of, say, 40.
No worries, though; they will never grow
old and cease to exist in the realms of hip.
The grey-haired, infirm, sight- and
hearing-impaired move like ectoplasm on
the fringes of their notice. There but not
quite. The world and all that truly matters
revolves around their psyche-plumping
awareness of the tenor of their times,
celebrities, cool new stuff, societal mores
rebuffed, the forbidden absorbed in
delicious dollops of adventurous daring.
Theirs is a world apart. Whoever claimed
no such reality as parallel worlds, each
reality of existence fabricated in need by
creatures in developmental stages of
incremental awareness, gradually becoming
what they had scorned in a relentless dance
of biological inheritance, dissonance,
maturation and decoy, ascending levels of
consciousness and performance on the way.
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