Grit, grit, I used to call it.
I told others, this is me.
What I had.
Not that long ago, but oh so long.
And now I ache, infuriated at my body when I cannot drive my motorcycle.
Cannot wheel away on wind and freedom.
I have become weak, weak, old and tired.
My passions became my past.
Thoughts are evasive, thinning like my hair.
I fall like an old man.
Like a very old man.
And I am not.
I am not that old.
I will fight. Grit, grit, I call it.
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This post was previously published on medium.com.
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From The Good Men Project on Medium
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Photo credit: Martin Baron On Unsplash
