On a chance so one may wonder why not publish anything written even a week ago. There could be arguments that, though you do change every second, whatever precipitated the last rambling probably persists today.
But you know, there’s an expiration date to everything.
Deep down I know something written a week ago has no value. Since it’s no longer immediate, and slow simmers are passed over. We must keep facing forward.
Sometimes it’d be nice to wonder if we came with expiration dates. There’s a game sometimes played; a wonder if you did indeed see the day you’d pass. A number floating above each head in a translucent alarm clock, numbers blaring.
Thinking about expiration dates helps with framing what’s next. They come so suddenly, and you wouldn’t suspect a thing.
But you know, sometimes I like to forget about them. I’d like to forget I’m growing grey hairs, and that my chipper step renders a little less cheery.
It’s almost like being pulled into a vortex and I’m reaching out and clasping for anything at all. But then you realize you are the vortex, with whatever nonsense beliefs you got.
It’s being a self-aware program, knowing you’re segfaulting and decompiling into assembly makes you wonder what branches would be worth stripping.