According to one popular theory, people get aging from the age of 25. For me, that is the year I joined the Foreign Ministry.
Several sub-rules and tests are created to fulfill that aging theory, you find wrinkles at age of 25, start to lose hair and muscle mass on 30s, at 40s your teeth and eyes decayed, then your kidney at 50s, your nose at 60s, your liver at 70s, and the list might run down till the end of your life.
It looks like we enter a butcher house, and the AGING Butcher House, unlike other butcheries in any corners of the world, opens 24 hours a day 7 days a week, and it keeps open until the Death steps in, gets its share.
Such a bloody inhumane doctrine never conquered me, it is just another shabby conspiracy of scientification. I would easily take comfort from its denial but I know I will get aging some day under the law of nature.
My ideal aging theory is based on a frequent nightmare in my childhood.
In that dream, I walked with my mum on a crowded platform, suddenly all the people around vanished and I am left in a deserted square, I ran here and there like a drifted leaf, but failed to find my mum. Finally, I sat down and rest my head on my knees. The air was chilly and crispy, wind whistled past my ears. When I stood up, I found my parents turned into a set of statue, a high, cold, solemn statue!
I always pressed for a decoding from my mum on the next day, and she ventured answers in her free-rein style. You are tired, you want to visit museums, too many films for you, those are among most reasonable ones. But one answer struck me, she said that means one day mum and papa will get aging and die.
When I grow up and my parents get aging, that answer haunted in my mind gaining its strength every day as my aging theory.
Last month when I climbed up the steep path of Capri Hill in southern Italy, I sweated like a pig. At that moment, one tiny voice inside me was saying, you are getting old. I stopped for a while to listen to it, the sun was setting, we had half an hour to come down the hill, and I just started aging, in such a fairytale scene.
When I rushed to the pier and sat against the stone wall, that inside war ended ironically. The street lamps were conquering the whole hill, the heat absorbed by the stone was ironing all tangles of my mind, and I am ready, at any time, to be a high, cold, solemn statue.
