When I was six all adults seemed to be people from another world, even kids above fourteen were not our, children’s kind.
When I was nine I tried to convince my mom that she was old. She protested, but I knew I was right and couldn’t understand how she could not understand it. We were sitting in front of a TV, and in the middle of our discussion one man on the screen said to another, “You’re thirty years old, you are a young man. Why don’t you do something about your life?”
My mom victoriously pointed at the telly, “You see, thirty is young!”
“Yeah,” I said, “but you are thirty nine!”
When I was fifteen my mom mentioned someone from her work as ‘this boy’.
“How can you call him a boy?” I resented. “He’s twenty five, he’s a man with a beard, he’s totally an adult!”
“Ah, for me he’s a very young boy,” my mom sighed.
When I hit twenty five myself I was shocked. I felt, “That’s it, I’m a grown-up.” I stepped into the world of adults that seemed to be so alien even a year ago. I didn’t have a beard, but it wasn’t too consoling.
Next Monday I will be thirty nine. My son won’t tell me I’m old, not because he is smarter than I was, but only because he is four and can’t count further than ten where, probably, the border of strange adulthood starts for him.
It’s funny to look back and see how the concept of young and old changes. I’m not old, and if somebody tries to convince me in the opposite I won’t believe them, no matter how desperately they try. But I can look at a twenty-five-year-old thinking “Oh, that kid’, and, like my mom years ago, I don’t care if he has a beard.
These days I think I won’t get old, ever. I don’t mean on the physical level, of course, here you meet the power you can’t overcome. But on the inside, there are two stages for me, live and dead, the rest are nuances not worth attention. My belief is that if you don’t let it your soul will never get blind, deaf or callous.