I’m not a morbid person, but I have been thinking about death lately, specifically mine, and wondering how long I have left.

I’m thinking about it. Not every second of every minute thinking about it. Rather, it will pop into my head every few days and I’ll examine it. I’ll turn it over in my mind, a cold stone being flipped and warmed in the gloved hand of my mind. I’ll think of those who have gone before me that haven’t made it this far, to this age. I’ll think of those I’ll leave behind and wonder if they’ll mourn me.

I know, in the deep recesses of my soul that today is not the day. How do I know? It’s just a feeling, a ripple of a flat pebble skimmed and jumping along silky water feeling, that today is not my day. Today is not the day where my breath will still, or my hear will rest. Today is not the day where my thoughts will cease fluttering around my head like purposeful butterflies. Today is not the day where death will scoop up my essence and carry it, carefully, lovingly, to eternity. Today is not the day.

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