:: To All The Things That Only Matter After They Are Gone ::

me

It’s just a puff. A wisp. An ephemeral thing.
Not more than an angstrom.
It just appears in the periphery.
Just out of sight.

You hardly know it’s there.
Until, you don’t have it.
Then . . . you know it’s there.

If you have it, you don’t care to notice it’s there.

If you don’t have it, there’s nothing more important in the world.

Some day, you will die.
You will take your last breath.
And you will know it:

The-last-breath.

That breath will be precious, like the time each breath denotes.
More precious than anything else you have beheld:

The most precious.

Each millisecond of that last breath devoured like a perfectly-ripened fruit.
Each millisecond clutched and clawed and bitten and abused.
Trying to tug each millisecond back out of existence;

The genie back in the bottle.

But, it won’t work and that last breath will be the best breath of your entire existence.

Such are the many things that only matter after they are gone.