Borrowed Breath

Everything we own is borrowed. No one can take anything with them beyond the grave.

Everyday this world gifts another breath; when you are borrowing everything, you could sometimes find the time to be grateful.

Lately I’ve been forcing myself to smile. To make the smiling easier I imagine that every step from today leans against borrowed time.

Here I am with all of this unused lifespan and little will to do anything with it. Why do others, in comparison, who want to live so desperately, get it snatched from them?

I keep staring at the ground because I’ve been tripping more. It seems each foot comes a few millimeters above, floating. No matter how much I sleep it seems each day chips a millimeter risen.

Ah, I really wish I had some superpowers. Maybe the power to heal.

When a kid transferred into my second grade class he struggled with arthritis. We’d play the games because I was assigned to him, or gestured, and then he transferred, though I never saw him winced in pain. I only remember his egregiously large shirts and boxy DC shoes.

Why do I have to pre-emptively bury everything I love?