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When I was Eighty Years of Age

Writer: Gus Jonsson
Gus Jonsson
Jun 30, 2025
2 min read

 

Blue leather Riekers and a Seasalt sweatshirt, very little hair with a trimmed white beard, a distinct liking for the occasional Guinness and a glass of red wine, when I was eighty years old, with summer on my face.

I have published four books and am writing another, I have written a thousand poems and have paintings hanging in all corners of the globe. Reflecting on my creative life I find inspiration in solitude, where my Island birthplace still calls to me. Each book that I have written holds a part of my soul and the poems capture the essence of aging, joy and heartache, each word a thread in life's fabric. Fleeting moments that nonetheless linger in the quiet corners of yesterday like a collection of faded curling photographs, mementos and secrets never to be told, when I was eighty years of age.

My paintings are a kaleidoscope of emotions, each brushstroke echoing the rhythm of waves on golden stones fading to misting indigo and distant horizons. My words are another palette, a vivid electric tapestry, weaving threads of longing, celebration, reflection and the solitude of my Island birthplace. Oh! How I miss the cadence of the sea—due to my working years and life’s circumstances my home is, and has been for many, many years hundreds of miles away. I miss the solace, the music in the gentle crash of the waves that carries stories untold, a symphony of beginnings and ends, now that I am eighty years of age.

Each of my creations—a book, a poem, a painting, is a reflection of this sacred connection. They are fragments of my essence scattered across the earth yet always tethered to the island's embrace. Time, with its unyielding march, has taught me to cherish the fleeting beauty in impermanence; to see grace in weathered wood and poetry in the first cold breath of morning.  

When I close my eyes, I see not only the past etched in memories but the promise of yet another canvas, another verse, another page. This journey is unfinished, and the horizon ahead still beckons, mysterious and infinite, now i am eighty years of age.

 

 

 
 
 

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