Rushing to Live

I got a clock for my birthday and hung it next to my bed

Every day I woke to its ticking, right on time with the world, but to me, it was 40 years ahead

They tell me I’m still so young, but I’m not sure what that word means

Is it defined by how old you are, or by how much time is etched into your genes?

Disease roams my body, deciding when it will fully consume

But I put on my wellness mask, and wear a full timeline like a costume.

Every day I wait for the best day of my life,

Holding a rush-order against my neck that could cut deeper than any knife.

“Slow down,” people urge, insisting that we should all live every day like our last.

A hypocrisy spoken with good intent because unlike you, friend, my life is guaranteed to speed past.

And the irony of it all is that the pain is so overwhelming that I often find myself standing deathly still:

Lifeless.

Afraid of running out of time and petrified of pretending that I am timeless.

If I had a better imagination, I would talk to the clock on my wall with disregard. I would let it know it that I was in charge.

But pretending is ignorance, and I’ve never found it blissful, so I keep my awareness at-large.

I’m not admitting that it’s a good habit, but ever since my “irrationality” was proven to be sanity

I’ve lived on my toes.

The casualties I’ve carved inside my own reality…

They warn me of a deadline held within my irresistible fixation on the term “mortality.”

This fear of time was not a learned trait, no; it’s been buried beneath bones that lose stamina with every goal missed

And I find myself being forced into a whirlwind of fear and motivation in a world where they must coexist.

It’s a world that gets lonely fast.

I think, therefore I am, but I lose all purposeful perspective when I look down at two hands that were never fashioned to last.

On this earth, anyways. If I am to lose my mind and all sense of “being,” before perfecting my purpose,

Then what am I to do with this racing clock? Reach beneath the simplicity of my fading surface?

Below my flesh lays a land more barren than it should be, a land that had once flourished with flowers and flowing streams.

I suppose this has always been my destiny. There’s no rewriting the coding in your genes.

I’ve been around, at the very least. I’ve witnessed dead trees bloom a single, bright-red, breathing petal.

I’ve seen daisies poke their sun-kissed, yellow heads through rusty machines made of rotting metal

And blades of grass trespass through the cracks of the pavement on a sidewalk.

Am I not more alive than a plant? I once picked a flower to stare at its beauty, and in my greed, cut its life in two.

Maybe the flower’s purpose was to live long enough to bloom and become uprooted so I could enjoy its view.

It sounds selfish, I know, but hear me out:

We were never made to live for ourselves. Self-satisfaction is tempting, but it’s always brought me nothing more than doubt.

I am sure there is purpose as long as there’s breath,

And losing who you are is not lifeless enough to be called death.

I’ve been pushing half-beaten petals through thick cement while everyone else flourishes in the soil

From seed to flower under paved stone is painful, unhealthy, and limiting my life, but every bit of growth makes me proud to display my heavy-laden toil.

My stem might be crooked and short and my petals might not form a perfect pattern, but people will stare at the sidewalk and wonder how I pushed through.

Nature breaking past the man-made has always been taught to me as a form of art, and though my circumstance isn’t ideal, someone might tear my roots up someday to admire me as something beautiful and new.

They tell me I’m still so young, but I’m not sure what that word means

Is it defined by how old you are, or by how much time is etched into your genes?

No, the time my DNA holds does not look to the clock for direction.

It looks to the hope I can give during this short life.

Perhaps my purpose is to be plucked and valued long enough to change a single person’s perception.

Time is not my enemy.

Time is not my friend.

Purpose is still an idea that I’ve yet to comprehend,

But it’s time for me to embrace fear as a chance to grow stronger so I don’t have to pretend

And maybe someday, someone will notice me blooming through the cracks and find the strength to mend.

 

 

 

 

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