I will be twelve forever


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Growing old means, among the other things, to acquire higher sense of responsibility and to be recognized by people around you as a reliable being able to take care of yourself. Wrong! It seems there’s somebody as myself that will never regarded as such by anybody, especially closer relations. Lost a father you immediately have another ready to replace him, and this new father is younger than yourself. Shame.
Taking a stroll these days has to be considered a dangerous activity which may cause people around you much stress and preoccupation regarding your safety. Who are you – I mean myself – to wake up and decide all by yourself, without consulting anybody, to leisurely walk for five kilometers, camera in hand? In rural districts, with all those reckless cars, no sidewalks, no civilization and all those life-threatening entities running amok? Who do you think¬† you are? Indeed, who do I think I am? I’ll be old enough for retirement before I know it and I will be still treated as a twelve-year-old unable to take care of herself. It’s not depressing, but it’s rather embarrassing. Maybe it’s not even that. It’s a mixed feeling that includes mortification and sense of guilt for I don’t even know what. It takes away all the pleasure of doing anything, knowing you’re going to make people around you paranoid for a nothing like that, for just walking around and wanting to take photos of cats. I really feel like an idiot, but I sense there’s something unfair in it. I should be free to do something so silly in a place I can call “home”, but according to the state of things, I mean all things considered, my only liberty is to go to the supermarket and kick the nearest rabid housewife for trying to steal beer from my trolley.