As it were

I grew up giving up
on a wide range of things;
my favourite pillow,
crawling, being fed,
applauded for doing
the littlest of things,
being dressed by my
parents, occupying
the window-seat of all
vehicles I thought I owned.

I do remember a sudden,
silent voice resisting,
talking back to time,
whispering in the air,
asking it to stay, 
as it were.

Retired from work,
I looked askance at the
state of affairs; severed
from life, I feel numb;
oftentimes, I have the
urge of asking a child, or
an adult if they were my
age and imagine a strange
expression on their face.

I can still walk, eat, watch
TV, stay connected with
the world, mostly with
the virtual world, do my
chores by myself.

But very soon, this time
will disappear, like camphor,
I will have to give up on
these as well; return to my
childhood for good, albeit
with the experience of an
adolescent, mature life;
I find it rather comical
that I will still not have
learned the art of giving
up; I can clearly listen
to the voice screeching 
everywhere on my behalf,
as it were.