The Relativity of Age

"You are so young, not like me."

I read the message twice, with increasing amusement and irony.

There we were, two twenty-years old odd young adults, both behaving with world wearied lethargy.

Age is relative, isn't it?

To the bouncy primary school kids, my sobriety signals a common trait with coffee shop uncles. I move slowly, fluster and tell them to make peace, keep quiet and be friends. With them, I feel prehistoric. Ancient, bumbling and shriveled up.

To the elders, I'm in the prime of my life, wise enough to think, old enough to execute, energetic enough to pursue. (I'm like Justin Bieber, minus the fame, fortune, fan club and singing ability.)

I had never thought of myself as young, not even when I was in secondary school. One close friend had described me as "precocious" - being unusually mature for my age. Then, I didn't know whether to be flattered or not;  I wasn't sure what "precocious" meant.

Now, so much had changed.

I'm not young enough to be innocent, nor old enough to be wise. A strange equilibrium.

"May time unfurl the petals, not whither them further."

Sunset along Liverpool Beach

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