Across the breakfast table, my knees looked at me balefully as they slowly stirred the oatmeal, longer than I thought it needed, actually.
“You’re not 21 anymore,” they muttered. “You haven’t been for more than 40 years”.
My shoulders, in the opposite chair grimaced as they reached for the coffee.. “What were you thinking?….oh, wait, you weren’t, were you? “
The neck just sat there, hunched uncomfortably over a slice of toast, then gave a long sigh. A conspiratorial glance flashed among them, a “Look what we have to put up with” sort of thing, then a collective sigh went round the table. They made a sound, like the creaking the old house makes in those black & white horror movies on late night TV and then all looked accusingly at me again.
I smiled. It had been fun, yesterday, spending the day riding in the woods on the old Bultaco.
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Some say the body is “the temple of the soul.” Poetic words that don’t seem to fit reality. Not mine anyway. Perhaps, for many of us, it would be more appropriate to say that “the soul is that increasingly flickering flame that — for the most part — fails to adequately illumine the run down, burned out shack it inhabits, except for those rare moments when it leaps to brilliance and outshines the sun.” Of course, those moments do leave the shack a bit more charred ,,, and life far more interesting.
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