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Relatively, my bones aren’t old. Fossils are old. I, thankfully, am not as old as a fossil, so therefore, neither are my bones.

But they have begun to creak like an old screen door whose hinges protest with weariness not to be budged even one more time.

They are tired. I compare their fatigue to those who built America’s railroads and feel guilty to complain.

Still, my bones feel weighed upon, as if my skin is made of fleshy lead and the structure of my body may, with one swift move, cave in upon itself.

I guess this is why the fountain of youth allures us so. But my bones are tired and old, if not from work and age, from mere living. On a planet whose humans can’t be civil to one another.

Perhaps that’s the weight of the world pulling on my bones.

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