Age is just a number after all.
It is so nebulous. The feeling that you are either a hundred or a one. Transient.
You hear someone giving you advice and you think ‘Who the hell is he?’. Because, obviously, you have seen more. You have been through more. You have been a hundred and more and you don’t need advice from the likes of him.
Old fogies. Sitting with their Monk and three quarters coke, and thinking they are the kings of the world just because they have seen more of it. I ask them- Have you seen the likes of me? And they smile. Because they have seen the likes of me and crushed them, or left them far behind and they look at the ice melting in the glass and say ‘Listen to me, you punk’ and -I still say ‘Have you seen the likes of me?’. They think I have too much attitude. They think I’m too cock-sure. I’m the tiny life they have seen flicker in someone else and seen it die out in someone else. They look at me and smirk. ‘Poor little kid- You will learn’. And I still say ‘Have you seen the likes of me?’.
They make another drink and say ‘We have been here for the past two decades, when do you think you will grow up?’. And I think ‘I’m here to beat you’. They still smirk. Let them. I’m here to beat the likes of them.
He thinks he’s a hundred and seen the world. I think I won’t need a hundred to see the world.
It’s the slap on the face, it’s the thrown gauntlet.
I will win.
Because you have not seen the likes of me.