8 Months Young.
I have of late, I know not wherefore how, lost all my mirth.
Wait, strike that, I should say “lost all my youth”. Mother and Father have been watching too much Hamlet, and I do not mean the cat. I have lost all my youth. Where has it gone? I do not know.
I do know that I am old beyond years. Actually I don’t have any years, but these 8 months have been plenty long. I really am very old.
Mother assisting an aged gentleman
Fetch me my cane, for I must away.
So long have I lived that I fear that life has no more surprises to offer. I can crawl, I can eat mashed carrots, I can throw things on the floor and occasionally pick them back up. Is there more? Is that not enough? These are the questions that plague me when I take the time to ponder them. Which is to say never.
Father just reminded me that 8 months is actually very young indeed, and that I have the whole of my life ahead of me, including most of what I will enjoy the most. He poses me the question of whether talking or walking will be my favorite life’s work. He has failed to consider that it might be the combination of both.