And at that moment you first gasped for air,
You signed up for the longest countdown of your life,
Your own life,
With spectators who come and go,
And the only one that stays,
Is the presider,
And the timer themselves,
Tragically oblivious,
For innocence has its merits,
And nervous,
As time passes by,
And every breath,
Every blink,
Every move,
Every idle moment,
Is a step close to the end.

But you died once,
When the world lets you down,
Or perhaps you let yourself down,
But you get back up
And exhume yourself,
And you’re alive again,
Back to counting,
Back to waiting.

You died again,
At eighteen, and twenty  and perhaps more,
As small parts of you went down to the grave,
So the new ones can grow in you,
To start anew.

Then it matters less and less
Til you reach the real one,
But what is the real one?
No one knows,
But when it comes,
You know,
You spent more on the living,
Than on the counting,
And if it comes soon enough,
Or farther in the future,
It matters little,
For now is now,
And you live in it
Each and every time.


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