Letter Of Aging Research Paper

I am aging. I never imagined that I would ever write such words, to you especially. I suppose that is the path of those who trust that their inner and outer selves are ever youthful; in denial until the bones of existence quake with an unexpected truism. I am still youthful, in my head; after all, I’m writing this letter to you, remembering which one of my countless nieces you are. I have lost my smooth, ageless face, lost the sense of being able to bend down without at least three joints cracking. I am comparable to one of those arthritis complainers and Saturday bingo regulars; I have in eccentric bursts of tiredness with the world begun to consider retirement. You gasp. (Before I continue, I must say that you aren’t the first

I believe that you will become the chief detective of the Spry and Dennis agency when I retire. (Dennis more than agree with me in both areas.) However, I am not sure that you, my dear, believe in yourself. It is a tiresome time to believe, a weak, weary time; we look on upon the unbelievers to wonder why, and find ourselves instead wondering why not. We need to harvest our courage, to attempt to wear our jocose face masks every day, to be unworried or we will be pulled into the endless drear of civilization. The struggling denizens, though how we wish to be them, are plodding through the muck. It is hope that we lack, the quietest of flames that lives in a gentle lull. The problem is that we don't have any gentility; nowhere to be found is a lull. If we were to look, possibly, conceivably, we would find a bit of quiet. A teardrop of the ocean in a desert

So many people, resembling frightened sheep, are letting others lead them to rot. None have stopped to wonder why the masses of people are trudging toward their slaughter. Why has it never occurred to the individual that their journey to death is not necessary? How can we walk through a river of impenetrable sludge and pretend to delight in it? It’s the million dollar question to all. It’s the enigmatically popular conversation topic, unresolved, vaguely intriguing. We study it. We regard it as a deficient mentality. Are we not all adroit enough to find our own paths? Aren’t we able to make our own decisions? To make a mold of your own live, use the rarely walked path; wonder about the rarely wondered topics. Those are my golden rules; or, at least, two of