Breathe, I tell myself. Just breathe and stop thinking, stop overthinking. Stop trying to figure out the rest of life in one fell swoop.
Easier said than done, of course. Overthinking is what I do best. And in this case, thinking is necessary.
Time grows short, you see. I feel it in my weary bones, see it in the dreams I'm having with alarming frequency. I see the string being played out and there isn't time to fritter away; now is the only time left to make a mark that might linger.
I wish I could make others see this. But it's almost impossible to persuade a stubborn heart to see the fleeting nature of nature. There will always be more days to set things right. There will always be time to frolic.
"There isn't," I want to say. "For you, perhaps, but not for me. My time here can now be measured in months, perhaps weeks. I look tired because I possess this knowledge; it is lodged in the secrets wells of a heart that cries out for just one more moment of bliss, one final moment of peace."
I do not say these things, of course. It would not be honorable. It would betray my promise to be light, to keep everything bottled up inside and be the man I'm supposed to be.
I feel them, however. I feel them with every fiber and they make me worried and weary and wondering.
Eh. Meh. Life will bring what it brings.