I have noticed that as you get older,
you become invisible;
people don’t seem to notice you much anymore.
People bump into you because they don’t see you coming,
or if you stand still, they pass closer and closer,
reducing the space you occupy, until you flee.
You begin dressing in brighter colours,
and clothes of outrageously bad taste,
hoping someone might just acknowledge you by pointing.
Young professionals peer into a room where you are waiting
for some urgent procedure to keep you alive,
declare it empty and call it a day.
Is this what the French call “la petite mort” – the little death?
Is this how it ends?
I wasn’t expecting to vanish slowly!
The term “la petite mort” or “the small death” has several meanings.
In the musing above it describes an undesired event or painful realization
that affects a person so much that “a part of them dies inside”.
The more idiomatic, sexual meaning was not intended here ;-)
Candid Street Photography,
National Gallery of Victoria
Single image capture, processed with angst.
Pentax K-5; DA 35mm F2.4 AL Prime Lens (52mm film equivalent)
F4.5, 1/8 sec, ISO1000