December 8, 2021

Yesterday I went to the audiologist. She confirmed what I already knew, my hearing has gotten worse. That I likely have difficulty following conversations in noisy environments - I do. Apparently she has seen an uptick in visits. It seems that spending COVID in isolation meant many of us were in quieter surroundings, but now that we’ve started going out in public, many of us are having a harder time hearing - not to mention the face masks which strip away the visual cues of speech.

I’m irked by this slow but constant erosion of my senses. It’s aging. My mortality reaching out to give me a poke, a reminder, to take pleasure in the things I still can. My glasses thicken as the the pile of unread books gets taller. And soon hearing aids will bump the higher frequencies so I can engage in conversations, and hear what my friends have to say. Not to mention the music - the ripped CDs and vinyl, the illicit downloads from Napster, the symphonies and chansons, the live performances that almost certainly contributed to my diminished capacity.

The music will go on, stories will continue to be told, and poetry will be writen well beyond my stay here. And as voracious as my appetite for sounds, for art, for experience is there is much I’ll never taste. As much as we contemplate and long for the infinite, it is the limits, the boundaries, and decisions we make that define us through their filters. Which is really to say, or remind myself, to be grateful for all my past indulgences and the pleasures I have now - and yet, I remain irked.