I like to think of life as a moving train, its stages unfolding like stations along the route—infancy, childhood, adolescence, adulthood, old age.
On this journey, we meet people from various backgrounds, ethnicity, race, beliefs, ideologies, and stories. Family, friends, colleagues, acquaintances, love interests—these I imagine to be passengers aboard. With some we create beautiful memories, a temporary bond full of mirth and, for the moment, an ineffable joy and happiness. Secrets are shared. Fear, hopes, highs and lows, romance, life goals, dreams and aspirations. Very little is held back from them. They're a part of our lives because we choose to make them so. We sit in the quiet corners of our life compartments and share our stories, offering advice when asked for, or a shoulder when needed, or inspiring hope when the future dims or saying gentle words of encouragement when the heart falters. These are bonds that leave a mark.
And when their time with us ends—whether by choice, circumstance, or the quiet drift of time—the loss aches like a missing piece of ourselves. We carry the echoes of their presence, the warmth of memories fading like old photographs. Yet the train moves on, as it must.
And then with others, we simply get along, trading shallow tales and nothing profound. Personal questions are deftly sidestepped. Meaningful conversations revolve only around politics, career, the latest trends. Occasionally, there's a fleeting sense of camaraderie over mutual interests. Perhaps a novel you both enjoyed or an athlete you both root for or a singer whose melody you adore or a political figure you both couldn't care less about. Sometimes it could be a shared laughter over such small things as whose child is more stubborn.
When they come to the end of their journey with us, we smile at them—sometimes a quick hug—and wave them goodbye. No hearts broken. No deep attachments to sever like a knife slicing off a chunk of your skin.
New people board. The circle continues.
Until the journey ends.
Lately, I've been thinking about old age.
Among the different stages of life, this one nibbles at my mind. I'm in my late 20s yet the thought of growing older sends a quiet shudder through me. My parents wear their years gracefully, their silvering hair and softened features a testament to lives well-lived. They’ve raised children, seen them flourish, and now, in the twilight of their years, they move with a quiet contentment, as if every wrinkle were a badge of wisdom rather than worry.
They wear their joy like the sun wears its dazzling glory.
There's joy in ageing: retirement, joy of a life well lived, more rest, grandchildren to light up the place, more laughter. From an adult back once more to being a child who's treated with extra care and tenderness. Only now they're grown, old babies.
But there's another side, the one they don't speak of. The joint aches. Today it's an ankle pain or a dull ache in the waist, left ear, right eyes, a tooth. Tomorrow it's a headache, chest pain, wrist hurting, stiffness of the back, insomnia, partial amnesia, gradual loss of sight, reduced sharpness of hearing.
Perhaps I should mention the evident decline in youthlike agility, the vigour of the young of age. Now the wear wistful smiles for young people who sprint or walk in strides or dance in wild jerks of body, nagged by the memory of sometime in their lives before the sun starting going down.
They can only reminisce of their prime days when they could lift 50k sac without breaking a sweat. When they could run without panting fit to pass out. When they could jump heights effortlessly and walk long distances without pausing to catch their breath every quarter of an hour.
There's the loneliness. Your children grow and all leave home to carve their own path through life. Build careers, be famous, find love, settle down, have their own families. Occasionally calls and visits are sweet but fleeting. They can't replace the daily hum of a full house.
Time refuses to rewind.
A colleague once argued that wealth erases the fears of aging. I didn’t bother debating; some minds are too rigid for nuance. Money may soften the edges, yes, but it doesn’t halt the march of time or mend the fractures of a fading body.
I know I shouldn’t dwell on the negatives. Yet the anxiety lingers.
Because the train doesn’t stop. And one day, it will be my turn to step off.