experiment 39 : 19.

check it.

over the last year i’ve been thinking of my own mortality in a way i never have before.

i’m thirtyfuckingnine
my mother died of cancer
and i was raised by a man who made his fear of my potential illness known in unequivocal terms.

which is why i quit smoking
which is why little things now have a tendency to freak me out.

my body no longer matches my face
it is aging
my peter pan complex fighting the inevitable
among other things.

all these things mixed together create a feeling in me that is difficult to quell.

but then there’s this.

i know, i know.
he’s talking about writing but i think it still applies.
this is life and i gotta walk all my hippie bullshit* talk.
all in.
allfuckingin.
*figuratively speaking.

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