Come and go as you like, either way numbers in memory stay the same.
A day of birth delivers medicinal package of expiration.
Funny how joys of new life quickly fade into cries of sorrow once the jig is up.
Why don’t we make our final exit on the same day our heralded arrivals were announced?
Wouldn’t it be a cleaner way to wrap up things in the box of non-speculation with the added vibrancy of shimmering bows?
Growing up is filled with journals of fun and youthful frustrations that split into sections of urgency with potency of mid-years.
Growing old is the punishment for escaping the romanticized rite of passage of dying young.
When you linger with bated breath, armed for battle of threats to life, that’s slowly perishing, the notion of another reminder of closeness of tombstones is the metaphorical existence that gives visible birthmarks.
Each day that’s greeted with serious acknowledgement should remove the shadow of graves from contractual itineraries.
Why do so few of us question where we came from prior to when birth canals became enlarged with conception?
Perhaps secrets rest in the security of the unknown, and how the power of understated fear commences when turning another large number weighs heavy on droopy eyelids.
These things come and go as they like, even after bodies convert to minuscule pebbles, inheriting the earth.
Dates without end.
