I woke up this morning realising--I only have a set number of days left.
It didn't change anything, I didn't suddenly become a better person, nor did I drop everything to go and make a dramatic life change, join the Peace Corps or climb a mountain in a hemp robe. I went to work as always, thought my thoughts, did my jobs, ate lunch, came home, thought about what needs to be done this weekend around the house--in general, the same.
It's not possible for me to grasp the idea that my death is impending. Part of it is that I'm not afraid of it. I wouldn't say I welcome it, I rather enjoy things here, but it'll arrive when it arrives, and that'll be it.
The other thing that comforts me is that the span of my years is just the core of my life. The things I leave behind, the things I create, the things I have built, those will be me, also, living on past the day my shell stops working. I know that all the bits that make up me will go back into circulation, so all the tiny building blocks that made me go will go elsewhere, perhaps to make someone else go, perhaps to make a bird fly, or a stone to wear down just that much more in the tide.
I feel worn down by the tide tonight. Stones, no matter their great size or might, get worn down to become the tinest grains of sand, lying there to be tossed around the beach like so many child's playthings.