Decrepitate.

Decrepitate. Define it, you say, being a person of youth. Well, may I say that I've trodden the sands of time, marching through my childhood years-hopping, skipping, dashing, involving some fists at times, sometimes sobbing...all the way to manhood, braving its tides, to taste and savor all of life's nectars, including matters of the heart, which can prick one's soul with a thousand needles, and that's just for starters, an endless appetizer, if you will. Because should you delve into the heart's affairs more deeply, you'd soon find out that the heart has swords for teeth; it cuts and grinds as sharply as it exalts in exceeding and inexplicable ways one can hardly believe sometimes. And if you fear a thing called love, as others may call it, which I rather refer to by its very act—of care, compassion, or affection—you might not want to go there, that is if you expect your beneficiaries to reciprocate all that you extend. But you might miss something so simple, yet so profoundly significant at once, should you skip over it.

I, however, am in my third act, traipsing on this stage called life. I've seen a thousand moons and witnessed stars shine and recede into oblivion, if not first immediately ushered out by the depths of time, which spares no one, like stars that merely fizzle right after birth. I've climbed the highest peaks, each attempt maims so severely at times, one falls in the deepest valleys with such dismemberments unheard of in still callow, incubated minds, and you ask me to define decrepitate. I've bathed in the sun's radiance and roasted in it all the same; its luminance stings, like salt to a worm in a slow burn. If I crackle when I roast in fire, I can't possibly hear the sound of my anguish, as I languish inside, can I? So, you tell me—do I crackle and pop when you see me roast in fire? I've seen and heard of unnumbered souls, both young and old, suffer unspeakable torment. Deprived of any means of protection, they are powerless, and their lives are all they have until their blood is shed by savages. By the way, did you see it too—the endangered species on the news last week? The harmless rhinos do naught but roam the fields in peace, unsuspecting of predators, and still, they're poached and bled to death for their quaint horns. Such horror reminds me of the pink dolphins and human nature, and makes me wonder which animal is the real beast on earth.

You ask a decrepit man to define 'decrepitate'. I say, stop searching too hard for meaning in mere words. Look and observe around you instead. Perhaps you'd discover something, if there be any road worth traversing, a wave worth riding, or a meaning to derive from life at all. Then tell me what you find. Hear me now, go on. Live.