Bernard Chan Poet Prose Poetry

Goosebumps

Here I am,
sitting at my desk watching an old 
romantic comedy on my computer, 
the kind of thing I wouldn’t have been 
caught dead watching in my youth.

The height of uncool,
the epitome of maudlin sentimentality,
I’d have snorted years ago,
adding an exaggerated eye roll
for good measure 
in case the contempt in my voice
failed to register with 
the intended audience.

Now, I feel goosebumps 
clawing up my arms
and the sides of my neck
like a horde of micro-ninjas, 
then, reaching my temples,
spreading out like tiny explosions.

Oh, leave my eyes alone! 

Age is destroying my immune system 
against emotional viruses
even while it’s aggravating
my chronic cynicism. 

Books, movies, songs,
cheesy soap operas, 
even fleeting half-thoughts that 
invite themselves 
into the members-only inner sanctum 
of my brain.
Almost anything can trigger 
that annoying tingle. 

And ‘poignant’ has become one of my
favorite words because 
everything feels that way.

Why?

Is it because, after so many years, 
life has succeeded in secretly 
planting a large cache of empathy in me?

Is it the vague autumnal feeling
that now grips me year-round,
fed by a creeping awareness 
of my dwindling reserves of time,
and the attendant sensation that 
the older I get,
the faster time flies?

Or maybe I’m in permanent mourning. 
For lost time,
expiring memories,
lives not lived,
loves not dared.

And the transient insignificance of it all.  

Whatever the reason,
I have to make a choice.

Let my mind 
continue to wind down,
or grab it by the scruff of its neck
and wind it 
the hell back up!

Decision made.

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