{"id":28190,"date":"2023-11-03T09:09:43","date_gmt":"2023-11-03T13:09:43","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.chezcora.com\/?p=28190"},"modified":"2026-06-24T10:28:10","modified_gmt":"2026-06-24T14:28:10","slug":"this-aging-body","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.chezcora.com\/en\/ce-corps-vieilli\/","title":{"rendered":"This aging body"},"content":{"rendered":"<div class=\"wp-block-group is-layout-constrained wp-block-group-is-layout-constrained\">\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">The other night, this aging body dreamt of death. It was wrapping itself in the bedsheets, twisting and turning. Its mind was terrified. It imagined the worst.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">Like a wounded animal, this aging body took its breaths in quick gasps. Everything eventually comes to an end, it thought to himself. Too soon, too late; the body couldn\u2019t bring itself to pray. Did the night seem longer than usual? Was that death knocking loudly at the door? The uneven somersaults and jolts of its old heart frightened the aging body.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">The aging soul used to tell anyone who would listen that its battered body would live to be a hundred. And that night, death hovered above. Like a white-necked condor, an imaginary vulture watching its prey.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">If I knew how to write as well as dolphins swim, I would have a real story to share with you this morning. But the time has come to let my fingers type freely, to let my imagination jump the fence of logic, undo the shenanigans of everyday life and dive head first into an ocean of new verses.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">This aged body, this tarnished flesh<br>These crumbling legs, these arms that haunt me<br>This cracked neck, these bulging veins<br>This withered forehead, this decaying skin<br>These tired eyes, these faded irises<br>These deflated cheeks, these lukewarm smiles<br>This mistreated belly, these dull scars<br>These crumpled breasts, their faded nipples<br>These marbled hands, these bluish veins<br>These gnarly fingers, one climbing atop the other<br>These dented toes, big tired feet<br>This paunchy waist, ruined appearance<br>This clumsy back that carries its cross<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">Age sneaks up on me and devours me like a wolf<br>I run and run, I cry out for help<br>Whatever happens, I\u2019m adrift<br>In the den of time, all I hear is the wind<br>Inevitable loneliness, alone at the table<br>Do, re, mi, fa, so, la, ti, I am numb<br>I feel death ripening inside me, like a clinging fruit, a persistent sun<br>My senses fall silent, my heart finally settles<br>A scent of raspberries lingering on my neck<br>I grieve, I cry; my time has come<br>Falling asleep like Ophelia, rosewater in my bed<br>Last wishes, first shovelfuls of earth<br>I\u2019ll see no more spring, no more bright autumn, no more sleepy winter<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">Slowly my memory dims<br>I forget my name, my age and the colours of my life<br>I\u2019m strong, I\u2019m dead<br>There\u2019s that little ant sound that stops at the end<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\">Cora<br>\u2764<\/p>\n<\/div>","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"<p>The other night, this aging body dreamt of death. It was wrapping itself in the bedsheets, twisting and turning. Its mind was terrified. It imagined the worst. Like a wounded animal, this aging body took its breaths in quick gasps. Everything eventually comes to an end, it thought to himself. Too soon, too late; the body couldn\u2019t bring itself to pray. Did the night seem longer than usual? Was that death knocking loudly at the door? The uneven somersaults and jolts of its old heart frightened the aging body. The aging soul used to tell anyone who would listen that its battered body would live to be a hundred. And that night, death hovered above. Like a white-necked condor, an imaginary vulture watching its prey. If I knew how to write as well as dolphins swim, I would have a real story to share with you this morning. But the time has come to let my fingers type freely, to let my imagination jump the fence of logic, undo the shenanigans of everyday life and dive head first into an ocean of new verses. This aged body, this tarnished fleshThese crumbling legs, these arms that haunt meThis cracked neck, these bulging veinsThis withered forehead, this decaying skinThese tired eyes, these faded irisesThese deflated cheeks, these lukewarm smilesThis mistreated belly, these dull scarsThese crumpled breasts, their faded nipplesThese marbled hands, these bluish veinsThese gnarly fingers, one climbing atop the otherThese dented toes, big tired feetThis paunchy waist, ruined appearanceThis clumsy back that carries its cross Age sneaks up on me and devours me like a wolfI run and run, I cry out for helpWhatever happens, I\u2019m adriftIn the den of time, all I hear is the windInevitable loneliness, alone at the tableDo, re, mi, fa, so, la, ti, I am numbI\u2026<\/p>","protected":false},"author":414,"featured_media":28215,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"_seopress_titles_title":"","_seopress_titles_desc":"Une nuit, ce corps vieilli r\u00eavait \u00e0 la mort. Mme Cora signe une lettre sensible sur le vieillissement, la peur et la vie qui continue.","_seopress_robots_index":"","_seopress_robots_follow":"","_seopress_robots_imageindex":"","_seopress_robots_snippet":"","_seopress_robots_primary_cat":"","_seopress_robots_breadcrumbs":"","_seopress_robots_freeze_modified_date":"","_seopress_robots_custom_modified_date":"","_seopress_robots_canonical":"","_seopress_social_fb_title":"","_seopress_social_fb_desc":"","_seopress_social_fb_img":"","_seopress_social_fb_img_attachment_id":0,"_seopress_social_fb_img_width":0,"_seopress_social_fb_img_height":0,"_seopress_social_twitter_title":"","_seopress_social_twitter_desc":"","_seopress_social_twitter_img":"","_seopress_social_twitter_img_attachment_id":0,"_seopress_social_twitter_img_width":0,"_seopress_social_twitter_img_height":0,"_seopress_redirections_value":"","_seopress_redirections_enabled":"","_seopress_redirections_enabled_regex":"","_seopress_redirections_logged_status":"","_seopress_redirections_param":"","_seopress_redirections_type":0,"_seopress_analysis_target_kw":"","_seopress_news_disabled":"","_seopress_video_disabled":"","_seopress_video":[],"_seopress_pro_schemas_manual":[],"_seopress_pro_rich_snippets_disable_all":"","_seopress_pro_rich_snippets_disable":[],"_seopress_pro_schemas":[],"footnotes":""},"categories":[42],"class_list":["post-28190","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-lettre-mme-cora"],"blocksy_meta":{"styles_descriptor":{"styles":{"desktop":"","tablet":"","mobile":""},"google_fonts":[],"version":8}},"acf":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.chezcora.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/28190","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.chezcora.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.chezcora.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.chezcora.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/414"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.chezcora.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=28190"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/www.chezcora.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/28190\/revisions"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.chezcora.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/28215"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.chezcora.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=28190"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.chezcora.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=28190"}],"curies":[{"name":"WP","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}