I’ve been on this earth as a human life form for (41) years
plus a day or two. I’m likely way past
halftime considering the manner in which I chose to occupy this body. Not much I can do about that now, is
there? The negative fibers that bounce around
inside think about the possibility of making a proper wooden box to lay these
old bones down in someday. The realist in me
knows that I will never be put in the ground.
Just so that there is a written record of it having been said, I would
prefer that my ashes be scattered into the wind or a swiftly moving body of
water. So if there is a box I should
make in prep for my passing it should be a little smaller I guess.
That’s all very morbid, no?
I don’t think I’m going anywhere but it’s a helluva thing to blow out
(41) fictitious candles on an imaginary cake that no one baked for you on your
birthday. That’s a bed of my own making,
yes; but that doesn’t make it suck less. I suppose it's normal to be somewhat morose around one's birthday after some point. And yes, there has been a lot of happy in my
life but I’m consumed by the void that still exists. I’m consumed by “what if”. At this point, I know it’s me and it always has
been. I’ve seemingly always been the one to fuck
up the opportunity. I’ve made a living
doing it – hell I’ve created an empire plying my trade. So am I shocked that at (41) + a few hours I’m
alone on a Thursday morning? Not really,
I guess.
On this night, I know what I’ve got; (2) dogs who love me and a soft bed inside of a house
I love that me and the bank own. There's obviously more to that list, but that's where I am right now. I warm my
hands on the heat of my (41) candles
and know that tomorrow is a new day. A new
day and a new opportunity for me to make (41) mean something.
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