PROSE

Aging, in Praha, Summertime

Bohemia as life’s zoetrope

Samuel Castro on Unsplash — Praha’s Astronomical Clock

The more I age, the more I envision a Möbius strip extending and twisting and collapsing. I see my future, but not really, clouded in the way that disassociation and brain fog make even remembering to do laundry a hurdle not worth dying for. I see myself aging, to the point where I am an adult personified and capitalized. I see myself growing more confused with each seismic pulse, with each belly-deep earthquake that draws me nearer to darkness. Will it always be like this? Will I always have to remind myself of my name in the morning? Will I always feel like I am making laps in a circular pool, too in-executive for my own good and too kind-hearted for my own sanity?

But before that, there was clarity. There was childhood. There was the comfort of my mother and the assuredness of my father. There was symbiosis with my sister and unconditional protection for my brother. There was dance class after school, an afternoon snack more like a meal, homework, and sleep. Always sleep. I would wake up refreshed — I never knew tired then — and ready to do it over again. And over again. No complaints, no worries. I don’t know when everything snapped.

Have you heard of the “mortifying ordeal of being known?” I propose to you: the mortifying ordeal of being alive and expected to…