It is my birthday.
Why is this something to celebrate?
It only means I’ve survived another year while getting closer to death.
I’d prefer to be given a number at birth, say 67, and every year that number decreases, 66…65…64…
And when or if the number depletes
and I outlive my presumed lifespan,
everything will change.
People will pretend I’m dead, even though I’m not.
They will attend my funeral with me.
Afterwards, I will be a walking memory, a living retreat,
as important and unimportant as the air surrounding your head as you read this.
I will be a ghost that everyone sees, I will be a ghost real enough to touch things, I will be a ghost who haunts the people he loves and attempts to love the people who hate him, I will be of no real impact to the world yet a part of it all the same,
so I suppose nothing much will change.
Written at 9:49 in the morning, in my office, in Agoura Hills CA, before leaving for Disneyland.