Some people don’t like visiting old people’s homes because it breathes an undeniable stench of imminent death. I on the other hand look forwards to the days when I walk through the corridors of these buildings, peering in to each room as I walk by, watching the faces of the people as I sit amidst the elderly in a room. The smell of sadness and endings may sift through the air, but there is also a glimmer of humility that attaches itself to those emotions. Some sit staring into the stillness with emptiness occupying their eyes where once vivacity might have lived. Loved ones sit by their sides, holding the hand of a person who no longer knows who they are, calling their name over and over in the hope that it might trigger a connective spark of memory, causing them to shift their eyes towards their direction, or squeeze their hand. It humbles me to sit in the presence of people who might have once been a person who others revered or who others yearned to breathe the same air. The ones who are lucid will wave at you as you walk by like a long lost friend. What we ‘were’ is not who we will be. Life lived is not life understood, for if it were we would not sit in the presence of these people, staring into their eyes and questioning what was it that they worked so hard for in their lives. I am no different to the withered hand that I hold within mine. I will be no different to the person who fights to try and hold the dignity of lifting the spoon towards their mouth. We all thirst for the independence of living but submit before the corrodible dependence of our bodies. What we strive towards is possible, and even though we might lose our grip on it towards the end, it does not mean that it has lost its grip on us. And I will continue to keep visiting these rooms and corridors for whatever I do to escape what is inevitable, I still prepare myself to accept it with open arms. Life is nothing short of passion.