disconnected

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.