I fear that the days go by rather fast; the nights are shorter, the days too. I had assumed that it was just my mind that had chosen to toy with me, to push me to the edge. But the winkle that stared back at me yesterday, when I gazed into the mirror, slashed the strings that hold my heart.
While watching centuries turn like the pages of a book, one begins to imagine death a myth or an ailment, a weakness that lesser men suffered. And until yesterday, I too had forgotten how real death was, and that it came for men like me too.
I was born in the harmattan of 24 A.D or circa that. I may will that my bones be carbon-dated when I’m gone—just to shock the world. But I will not. Death isn’t funny. It was when it still seemed distant, impossible.
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