What do you call a man who has seen the turn of two centuries?

Old?

I’d say CURSED!

Forsaken by God.

Left behind to confront boredom, encounter misery, suffer the pathetic complexities of a stagnant life.

My name is Veda Paul and I’m 117 years old.

You may snigger and call me senile, or an attention monger, but at my age I don’t care enough to differ. The proof is ingrained in my bones, engraved upon my skin, sitting in my milky eyes that view the world in a perpetual shade of grey.

A man shows off to those who he knows, and everyone I know have long settled in their graves. Family, friends, enemies, anyone who knew me for the man I used to be – peaceful and content.

Age has ravaged my body, its wreckage stripped down to quivering splinters. But that’s not the problem. It’s my mind that bothers me, still as fresh as a spring blooming daisy. I think too much and have forgotten nothing.

What good is a young, vibrant mind to an old fossil like me?

It’s a jarring contrast that leaves me torn. My mind says, ‘Jump up!’, my body says, ‘Leave me be!’

I pray like a monk now, demanding release from this prison. Each plea shines like a diamond in my mind, abruptly losing its luster on the brink of my lips. That is the price of living beyond one’s time.

If God won’t listen, then I’ll take command of my own destiny.

The rat poison sits in the cupboard below the kitchen sink. It takes my rusted limbs forever to reach it. My unreliable hands shake, and the slippery bottle escapes my grip.

It shatters.

My ancient eyes barely see the broken pieces.

My overactive mind screams for its lost freedom.

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