I look at my hands often. It's an unconscious reflex, and I usually catch myself doing it in the act, as if it were taboo. There are always new lines on them, lines I don't recall ever being there. They're a bit rougher than they used to be, slightly more scarred and creased. It's an odd way of keeping track of the years that pass by, but it's not as if I have a mirror with me everywhere I go.
The strange thing is that I recall my hands always looking similar. The usual lines are there, those that the girls in summer camp trace with their fingers and use to tell your fortune, whether you'll be rich or poor or happy or sad, all because your hands fold at the right angle. All those calluses that have built up over years of exercise remain, and are just a little bigger now, probably.
And sure, you might say that I'm still young; there's a long while before my hands actually start to turn into shower prunes permanently. But the fact remains that the signs are there: these manos are getting mangier, regardless of how old I am at the moment.
Do other apes realize the gradual difference? Do they feel aware of their mortality as they get older? Questions to ponder.
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