A generic conversation with the woman in their 60’s led me to examine how women feel about themselves and aging. How a simple conversation around age gets exasperated with valour ” I feel so young” as if admission of the opposite is a testament of defeat. Why does : old means wise for very few, mostly it means dying and drying. Why do we hold onto our vain bones close to us? Some of us question it, some occasionally challenge it and few defy it. Yet, some embrace it wholeheartedly and go through immense pursuit chasing it. Some do it all to confuse the hell out of an alien who is just an observer of mindless games of beauty and eternal balance
So, what is the perception of self in one who challenges the purpose of beauty versus the one who embraces it?
As per the alien’s observation\- The pursuit of beauty is an endless chores for those who live like annuals plants. All their energy and attention is based on being the brightest in the garden because destiny of their propagation lies with the pollinator and if they are not a the brightest flower, they will perish without cause. Beauty is the most useful tool in their armor and Fairly, it is their identity.
However, Mr Alien is confused that some who he found to be perennial or could possibly be a tree themselves copy the phenomenon thinking they are annuals too. They are competing with those whose purpose is to receive and glorify with a cause of self-propagation. Mr Alien is further super confused because the perennials thinks they live in the world of annuals trying to be the brightest red and yet they fail to be brightest because they also have to satisfy themselves being the tastiest.
Those that know they are perennial can embrace the self. We don’t need pollinators. They need us and will come back to us long after the annuals are done. The purpose of perennial lives and thus preserves. Woman, treat yourself as perennial- everlasting, ever loving, ever beautiful, ever useful, ever present ever old and ever youthful. The qualities are liaised in their purpose. The universe is perennial. The joy that you can be brought and received is far deep than contours and highlights of cheeks. The wrinkle of the skin are the creases where loved flowed out.
Shame love if you shame that.
Perception of self who challenges lives someday without shame and with pride at its purpose as a perennial.
Self that cannot admit to trusting life beyond the year or worth beyond temporary glory relies too much on beauty. It basks on the gifts nature awarded but doesn’t culture its own bliss of give without grandeur.
Mr Alien thinks impermanence is thrilling for self and controlling it’s nature based in fear. He might come in dreams of perennial and awaken them today like he woke me up for a bit.