The Written Addiction

A Day Called Way Back When

June 10, 2025 5:55 am

I don’t know when it was that everything changed. Then again, like a child grows, or like anything else in this world, something small can grow pretty big.
And then one day, you look back.
You realize the world moved right beneath your feet. Or maybe you wake up to the idea that the world turned, and you failed to make a move. Hence, this leads us to the word, “regret.”

You look around and see . . .
The kids from our past have all grown older. Some of them have kids themselves, and some are doing well, some are less fortunate. I swear, it’s amazing to me.
The sudden awareness amazes me.
I am also amazed how the face of a clock stays the same, and time moves, but life is not the same anymore.
Nothing is.

I see life as something like the development of a flower on film.
Do you remember seeing this in school?
I do.

I remember the birth of a flower on time-elapsed film. I remember watching this in my science class. I remember watching this . . .
I saw the rose bud, blossom, flourish, and wilt. Then like any other flower or form of life, the petals receded like hairlines and the rose returned to nothing.
At the same time, I thought this was beautiful. I found this poetic because even in my youth, I saw this as a perfect version of life.
We all bud, we all blossom, and we all flourish, at least to some degree.
However, we all age and wilt in some way. Eventually, we all wilt and return to nothing.

I have no idea how long it takes for a wave to mount and crest before it curls and falls and tumbles into the shoreline.
I don’t know why some rounds of thunder last longer than their predecessors and I never knew why lightning never strikes in the same place twice.
These things are beyond me.
This is beyond my grasp or perhaps I am unsure who makes the rules. I don’t know who gets to pick as to who lives long, who wins or loses. I don’t understand the reasons why some will age comfortably, and others will struggle. Some will lie and be surrounded by attention. And some will go through life alone, and learn to embrace their solitude as the only way they were meant to be.

I try not to think about these things. I try not to rush either.
At least, I don’t want to rush anymore.
I am closer to the end than I am the beginning of life. Life happens. Life changes.
And so do we.

I had said this to you before, but when I was younger, I spoke the way a younger man would speak. Then again, I am sure there was a time when I took everything for granted. I assumed there would always be another tomorrow. I swore that I would never grow so old or be tired, bitter, or resentful with envy and seer at the younger flowers which grow around me.

I never assumed that I would be like some of the old folks in my old hometown. I never thought that I would yell things, like, “Hey you, kids! Get the hell off of my lawn.”
I say this in a figurative sense. Yet, I mean this literally.
I understand more about the great intolerance that takes place when you grow old and look back with a bitter heart. I call this contempt with regret.
But I want better.

I don’t care what my age is. I just don’t want to be old.

I want to have hope. I want to think or feel as lovely as the way we were when we were young and wild. I want to be like it was when we were eager enough to stay awake all night, just to be crazy, or just to say goodnight to the sunrise and sleep until noon.
I don’t care how old I am now.
I don’t care about the gray hair on my head or the ones in my beard. I am fine to have them,
but please, don’t let my heart turn gray. Don’t let my youthfulness fade away like the pictures from my childhood.

I know. . .
I swore that I would never grow old or join the ranks of some regular or everyday 9-5 working-class stiff.
Perhaps I assumed my youth would last forever. Perhaps I thought that you and I would be able to double-down the way a gambler would double-down on their hand at a game of blackjack.

If it were up to me, love would never fade and the crowds would never dwindle, nor would the energy or the adrenaline of finding our way into each other’s arms because, of course, lightning doesn’t strike in the same place twice, and certainly never a third time, which is why I say we are like lightning in a bottle.

I swear this, if I were to wake up “then,” as in right now, I can promise that I would kiss you in ways that you could not imagine. I would hold you tighter. I would leave nothing unnoticed because, if anything, my age has taught me that life is like a rose I saw in a time elapsed film in science class. Only, I never want to wilt or fade or return to dust.

No.

If I am to find you. Or if I am to hold you, or if I have the chance to dance or to kiss you, then I will do all of these things with the wealth of a young man’s heart.
However, time has shown me that the sand from my hourglass will run without pausing by my request. So, if this is true, then I promise you the past will be the past and the future will be something that old people think about.
I promise we will never get old.
I promise that not one night will pass when we do not kiss. I promise to say “I love you” before going to bed. When the band picks up, or the music plays, it doesn’t matter where we are.
Not to me.
Because if the time allows me to dance once more before my sands run out, then I will dance and hold you. I will never let go of you, at least not until my hands turn like the petals of an old rose, which wilts and returns.

Until then, let me be that child again.

Please . . .

Age is just a number.
Therefore, may the days of way back when, keep my eyes open wide enough that I can see when the grass is green or when the sky is gray, or in winter, I can see the snowfall and be happy to smile for the grace of a quiet day and get back in bed …

Next to you—

Oh, and I don’t care who calls me what or says this is sappy and too sentimental.
I used to care what people said, way back when.
And where did that lead me . . .

You know?