What does it mean to be a grown man?
Is it enough to simply recognise that
while certain dispositions require a front row,
not every inclination is repulsive?
Or perhaps the awareness that only a few
passport photos remain to be taken?
I guess toning down the theatrics might work.
Having a way with words doesn’t hurt either—
certainly if I’m to embrace vulnerability.
Then why all I can think of are the weather idioms?
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
It puts me in a rather peculiar position when—rather than, considering my age, courting a preposterous dowager—I yearn for the creamy scent of a perfectly ripe banana, the inconsequential beauty of unwitting lasciviousness—even if one exhibits something as mundanely inappropriate as picking one’s nose, so it is impossible not to call one a perfect scandal—a sun-drenched firmament of tiny freckles, and more. I can’t wait to see how ridiculous I will be in ten years when I’m sixty.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
hidden pilcrow 