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Composed of Bubbles


Well, it’s March. Not quite sure how to feel about the slow dead, creep of time. As a bystander of time, it’s interesting to look in. I still remember Christmas Eve, New Year’s, & President’s Day like they were yesterday, but then I realize weeks—months—have passed without stopping. The days of my life form a smaller percentage of its entirety the more I live.

I am about 24 and 1/2 years old, which is roughly 8,943 days of life. That means one day now makes up about .011% of my entire existence. Granted, that does not take into account leap years, nor the time when that time worm gobbled up the June of 2007. But .011%. That’s less than I have time to think about.

And, to get semantic on it, what is a day lived? Is it just being a functioning meat sack for a 24-hour time period, or does living a day necessitate any fine rules? We all live differently, so why does living feel so subjective? Why does living have to be codified as one thing or another? Or, how come we feel like something needs to be one thing or another in order to be?

Where are the bygone days of existing to exist, rather than existing to show why you should exist? We are all here. We are all trying. Participation trophies aside there is a freedom in knowing you can simply be. Be good, be bad, be lazy, be fire-breathing, be composed of bubbles, be you.

Be loving



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