I see the lines now and I’m not even looking for them.
I feel the weight and the pressure and the responsibility and I can’t do shit with it yet, I just know its there.
But I don’t really understand why I am here.
Other than this.
Other than this moment with my fingertips clicking and clacking rhythmically, I might add, against the keys on this board.
I am dying and I always was and its finally catching up or at the very least I notice it now.
I see the grey hairs albeit strays and the blackening out of what once appeared to be light.
I don’t want to go but I do.
I’m attracted suddenly in seeing how I end and if I end me or if its time who wins.
And soon, another me, one in the future, will look back on this if she survives and re-read what I have written to and for and about her here and it experience it again, this moment, this one, sitting at the keys playing notes that look like letters that look like symbols no matter where we are in time.
I notice it now.
She knows more than I do already.
Or maybe this is it. Or this. Or this. Maybe I don’t make it to the end of me.
Maybe I’m not supposed to see that, just these lines and creases and wrinkles and the shape of a frown around my very own mouth.
Maybe when I look back I’m supposed to tell myself that whatever is going on then is temporary too.
Maybe she’ll understand what it means to wait, to grow, to change, and to age.
Maybe she will have found what I have missed.
And I will be her too.
Will I be here?
I don’t want to go but I do.

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