He Cells / She Cells

A giant heap of imperfections, surprisingly capable of cellular respiration stands here before you. Go ahead, take pictures while you are at it. See these scabs and scars, and here,… this infection is starting to crawl through the skin.

Wouldn’t you like to be in this mess we’re in? Just for an afternoon or two?

I have found myself, more than once, carefully throwing a raw egg over my right shoulder and salt at those carrying the evil eye as they walked away from me – being unaware of the impossible mix-up that lifts none of the curses I sense impending pompously over my head. 

‘Good lord, did she try!’

‘Ah yes, but she did not have the knowledge needed.’

‘Clueless, surely. Be it true!’

No luck in the magic department yet. Maybe in a year or twenty when I will be as old as those who shake their heads now, confident that they know they know better by the grace of accumulated time.

Brain size? – Similar. 

Innate wisdom? – No way to measure.

So here we sit, with our sex cells and our lemonade. Pretending, for none other than our selves, that we know a thing or two about our wishes and commands. How we wish we did not have to command anything, and how we command, from life or the grand organization of human conduct, to grant us somebody to make those wishes come true.

‘Oh, how lopsided!’

‘Shhhht, don’t ruin the show!’

‘Sorry, carry on…’

Gee, thanks.

Is this that part of life’s cycle in which I stand defeated by my youthfulness and inexperience, or the fact that I am not yet fifty? If so, let me then focus for a minute on the only set of patterns left to trust; a calculated intake of nutrients in the margins of a 24-hour day. Look at us, feeding these giant heaps of time-bound imperfections approximately 3 times a day, so we may wake up, so we may produce all the energy our cells can magically manufacture. Then, maybe someday, the very best of us will surface and shine brighter than these scabs and scars.  Low and behold, we may even move beyond this mess we’re in with time having our backs, instead of our arrested eyes.