Paying a visit to particular, neglected artifacts, you couldn’t help but to have noticed a person behind their marks of past usage—prints from a younger pair of hands.
After having been away for ages, remnants of another time was refreshing, yet you couldn’t have help but to have felt thoroughly estranged at their sights.
They are comprised of words, methods, and thoughts of an entirely separate man, someone once at the dawn of his making—energized, humorous, and light-heartedly sarcastic—ambivalent of his future endeavors yet managed to enjoy that lack of clarity with ease.
As you sifted through the pages and retraced the steps that, at the time being taken, seemed inconsequential—curtains were drawn and the illusion set in, history regained vitality, and you began sensing the former vigor filling your present network of veins.
And so drastically different was this old essence—in fact, so rejuvenating and bright and untamed it felt—that you were overcome and rendered irretrievably deplorable by it: this blood has become foreign.
That certain green air which you once carried, no longer suited so nicely as your natural skin—as they were.
As frequently as you enforce (reassuringly) upon yourself the notion that age has left you unscathed, in the face of solid, tangible vestiges of a fresher man—who has been left behind in between the old pages—you are helplessly, helpless, for they hold firm and irrefutable proof that, you too, have inevitably aged.