I remember as a child, how time seemed to stand still. During summer vacation, the days were longer, the weeks spread out and the months were endless. During the school year, it felt as though time creeped by at an equally slow pace.
What I wouldn't give for to feel that once more.
It seems like my days rush by me, and before I know it I've wasted another month of my life idling.
I bury myself in work and in mundane tasks at home as a method of avoidance. It's the old childhood game of pulling the covers over your head when fearing the monster in your closet. If I can't see them, they can't see me.
If I don't think about dying, maybe I won't die.
It's not denial. I don't pretend I'm fine.
It's avoidance. I purposely choose to avoid the subject in hopes of making it through one more day without breaking down.
But while I sit here trying to just "make it through one more day" I realize I'm actually wasting said day.
I don't know how many more I have left. 300? 600? 900?
I really shouldn't blow through my time without at least trying to rage against the dying of the light, or some similar trite phrase.
All I know is that today I sit here, abled body not doing a damned thing, but I know tomorrow I may not be so lucky, and I will be furious at myself for my laziness for letting time slip by.
I need some motivation to get me going.
Obviously the whole being terminal thing isn't quite motivation enough.
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