As Yonder Mourning Breaks Upon Your Porcelain Skin.

I think the biggest thing I'll ever have to worry about is not losing time, but losing myself as the time goes by. As the clock keeps ticking towards some fateful day in the future, towards an exact moment that one could never really see coming. But until that day I will continue to remain hopelessly devoted to the trivialities of my youth, eternally engrossed in some new adventure of sorts.

I do not really fear dying, but I do indeed remember a time when I feared living and the very casualty that comes with waking up each morning. Now, of course, I am not bothered a bit at this inevitable consequence of my meager birth. After many tears and sleepless nights, I eventually accepted it as just the way things are.

I know that I'll someday laugh at myself in the mirror sixty years from now, wondering what I was thinking, not to fear growing old. I will gaze into my own eyes, tired and framed by a deep web of laugh lines, and smile because I am soulfully reassured that there will still be a hint of fire and sparkle left somehow. I will look at my feet, worn and weakened with age, and laugh because I will remember all the lovely places they have taken me. I will examine my hands, shaky and arthritic as they may be, and rejoice for every memory of holding a small child in my arms, or the late nights they spent helping me to write countless nonsensical blogs about the unforeseen future. 

And after all this, I will cry. I will mourn, wondering how many precious moments I have lost, how many times I should have let somebody else win, how many apologies that should have been mine in the first place.

But after all this which I have inwardly acknowledged, I wonder if I should someday actually like having the appearance of a raisin.