I stare at the paper. I read it again. I feel numb and sad.
Life is short. I cannot just count the days until I am gone. I might not leave. This I must remember.
A bewildering reality nudges my shoulder. I am not working hard enough. I am guaranteed nothing.
One day you might speak of possibilities of the future with a person. One day you might share a path with someone. Then one day you might wake up to read an obituary.
We are only given a short time on this earth. It seems every day I wake up is a miracle.