Inner Child - Nov 11 2024

 

Inner Child

Nov 11 2024

Lately

my hair-trigger temper

has gotten the best of me.

Apparently, I haven’t mellowed with age.

Haven’t learned

to take things philosophically

instead of rising to the bait.

So old as I am

and getting older even faster

I’m still waiting to grow up,

find the equanimity

that befits a man

of my advanced years.

It’s as if I’ve regressed

to early childhood;

if not cognitive decline

then emotional incontinence.

To a time

when I couldn’t self-regulate,

muster the patience,

contain

the hot flush of anger

that erupts like lava

too fast to outrun.

The fire in the belly

that only leaves behind

burned bridges

and badly scorched earth.

It feels primal, this blinding fury

this visceral rush.

But I also wonder

if suppressing high emotion

just displaces it,

pushing it down

into the black soul-sapping depths,

festering

and building pressure

until it explodes;

a supernova

that consumes all the planets

it once attracted,

only to have found themselves

circling too close.

So to be even-tempered

but let the steam escape.

To age gracefully,

giving my hot takes

time to cool,

but indulging, now and then

in bursts of profanity,

muttered rants

through tightly clenched teeth,

a hard smack

on whatever table comes to hand.

Taking advantage of the license

an old man has

to misbehave.

In my middle age

I thought, unlike the toddler, I had mastered restraint.

Only to backslide, time and again

down the path of least resistance,

disappointing myself

pushing others away.

Mercifully, the older I get

the better I am able

to collect myself,

detach,

resist provocation;

less volatile

despite the odd tantrum

and fit of rage.

But I hope not so accepting

I can’t be surprised,

not so jaded

I’ve hardened myself

and become inured,

unable

to gaze out at the world

with a childlike wonder

through innocent eyes.

The other inner child

I can only hope

I’ll never quite outgrow.