The middle-aged pop star on stage sported a dramatic sweep of grey on the crown of his thick locks. He sang about a losing battle with weight and broke into an impromptu nursery rhyme for his infant daughter; unabashedly serenading the thirty-year old ladies in the crowd who squealed his name following his every move with their mobile phones as proof of having seen him so close. He had bags under his eyes, struggled a little with the more lithe moves; yet lapped up his every minute under the spotlight, revelling in the attention of the screaming women, who would have gladly let him walk all over him.
He would always be the cocky cowboy from Feel; the one who after bedding the mermaid herself, lay back sated in his pool, chewing on a stalk of grass; contemplating—what—Love, life, sex? The epitome of wickedness, the man who appealed to both men and women (Many a gay man-friend had lost his heart over him.) It was those tattoos wasn’t it? Proclaiming him the quintessential bad-boy, the perfect one night-stand, for a pleasurable dirty weekend. He was what eternal youth felt like, when you quirked an eyebrow and had the world (and Daryl Hannah) at your feet.
Twelve years later I saw him in real life, not three feet away.
Still proud, still sporting those incredible turn-you-on-tattoos: yet, a reminder of how the minutes could slip by, right through your fingers, of mortality seeping away; a drop at a time.
You could try to make the most of it: pursue your dreams. You could watch it flow by your window: carrying away the debris of the past, bringing with it the pictures of children now grown up, showing how you too were a ticking time bomb. Blink and it could explode in your face. Sleep and you might miss it. Even open, three was was no guarantee that you were going to see, that which took place in front of your very eyes.
Whether a rock star or an average Eve, it brings you to your knees; so you can make way for those after you.