Sat 24 May, 2008 07:52 am
I'm loathe to admit that I should be so affected by a day in the year, that if it were, by about the same divisor, a second in the hour - might catch me in any act or attitude of life, and thus have passed without effect. But what a ponderous pulse is the custom, to mark the day of one's birth, for the opportunity it affords to consider the mechanical loss of life to the inevitable march of time.
Ponderous as it creeps toward me across 24 days of the month of May, this thief of youth and life makes long its approach - allowing me more time than enough to tally the sum of eleven months and one week done.
Two days off and sleep eludes me. I must have slept the clock around a year - so little does mark the time, and so deserve no rest, but lie awake making firm my determination not to waste another year.
Then it is the last day I'll ever spend waiting for tomorrow - but am far too tired and feel too insane to yet make good upon my word - upon my life!
Until at last, it arrives, lurches by in but a day and is gone with yet another year. Ah, well!
No looking back - I rest, and the clock's tick-tock's unheard.
So no cake and ice cream then?
But curious how a birthday is celebrated only for that which is given birth and not the birth giver as well. Seems like the birth giver did a lot more of the work to necessitate the birthday.
But very nice though, very poetic, existential, and most importantly coherent.