Scary Thought

The asphalt is gasping for air. It has stopped raining and everything exists twice. Every car driving by, every lamp post standing tall, is reflected on the surface of the ash-grey streets. Drops of water fall down from the sky and land on the world beneath. The world that we occupy, or the world that occupies us. The world that is honestly too big for me to comprehend. Most of the time I actually prefer my own little world, but frankly I've been rather disappointed with what's happening in there.

An old man with a walking stick walks by the window that once more seperates me from the rest of the world. The man, he must be in his eighties, moves in slow motion and all the other people walk past him, much like sports cars would overtake a camping car on the motorway. He is tall and, I reckon, he has a pretty good posture for his age. The afternoon sun is shining in his marked face and plays with the many wrinkles around his eyes. He's smiling. 

I wonder what it's like to be old, to be physically unable to do what I am used to today. No more skateboarding, of course, and no more basketball, either. But that's not exactly what I mean. What I mean is walking with a cane, moving in slow motion. And I guess that are the luckier cases even. Losing the ability to do all the things I sort of take for granted now, being dependent on somebody's help at all times, that, I think, is a scary thought.