Today when I visited my ninety-one year old grandma in her dusty little apartment I realised the full dangers of growing old. Her hands and toes twisted and wretched with arthritis and her eye sight is washed with grey smudges, causing everyone’s face but hers to be unrecognisable in her memory.
She sits, bathing in her snippets of past times, of Josephine Baker and opera houses, where her opinion was once respected and cherished. Now, like an old tissue her substance and fight for survival has been thrown away.
As she wallows in her own depression I realise the lack of senses she now possesses. Like a baby she is stripped of her self motivation and creativity.
I yelled rather plain and clear into her hear in aid that I would rather be shot in my insignificant head than be ignored of my wisdom.