I'm dying. Slowly but surely, I'll be dead. As far as I know, I'm not dying any faster than anyone else. I don't have any terminal diseases that I know of. I've been told that genetically, my heart may not be the best, but beyond that, I'm the spitting image of health's younger brother. And yet, the fact remains...that I'm dying. Slowly by slowly. Inch by cautious inch my skin is folding, collapsing in on itself. Soon enough my muscles will sag and turn flabby, my jowls will dip, my hair will turn on it's neon vacancy sign and I'll be dead. And we all will.

This isn't news. You wont see "We Are All Dying" as a New York Times headline. We know it. But we ignore it. Because it's easier to live when you aren't going to die. It's easier to believe the string of life will last forever. But life is never real until that string is cut, until it ends. When we realize how short life is, it becomes important. It matters. There's meaning to it.