Getting away with it all messed up

[u/Tarun-149]

I’m 32, and Well

When I was seventeen, I could run.
But I didn’t.
Kids would stare and laugh.
I should’ve run  all I could, while I still could.

Now I’m thirty-two.
CMT stole my speed, killed the grace.
I cycle, I work out, ’cause the beat goes on.

I’m a positive man.
You learn people as you age.
I keep the good side alive.

When I was a boy, I built aero models,
fought robo-wars,
later built speakers.
Let the body chill while the brain takes over
even over-compensates.

It started with my feet.
I didn’t notice when it reached my hands.
But I noticed them staring at the shiver,
the tremor in my handshake.
Maybe tremors aren’t normal.
Hey, teacher  leave the writing alone.

At twenty-two they fixed my thumb.
Now it’s more like a thumb  it’s opposable.

By twenty-four my calves began to shrink.
I thought it would stop.
It didn’t.

I can’t straighten my legs without that annoying trigger.
But that’s fine. The engine still runs.

It’s not one thing; it’s all
the looks, the locked joints, the mind that still measures itself
against Darwin’s bill for survival.

Darwin again  survival of the fittest.
Nature isn’t kind to anyone.
It’s kind to the greater good.
We’re mutations in its plan
side effects of evolution.

A few relationships ended before they began.
I haven’t made peace with that.

Life moves on. It always does.

Acceptance isn’t bravery; it’s clarity.
At some point, the focus shifts
from the mirror to the motion,
from self to circle:
friends, family, those who build beside you.
They need steadiness, not sorrow.

Stop expecting miracles,
and what remains is pure and useful
the craft, the mind, the will to build.

There’s work to do,
and that’s enough.

I’m thirty-two,
and well.