Forks

It was not until the middle of this year that I had finally come to realise: this something which I should have done so much earlier before.

This mortal coil that binds all of us to a universal, unshakable and yet very surreal destiny —death— is fast catching up on those who could not be more important to me.

These marvellous, mindless vessels of flesh: they define us, they enable us, but ultimately, they betray us. 

And it aches me to the bones to witness, to know, and to accept the fact that time has caught up with them and that I am unable for the life of me to change this scenario in any plausible way. 

For lack of a better way to say it, for this one moment of blatant and supreme selfishness, quite frankly put: beyond their conscious existence, my life to me is completely expendable, but theirs are not. 

I would be willing to give any and every thing to have, to savour, and to spend these precious moments, for life without them means absolutely nothing to me.

Nothing is more important to me; though this realisation feels as if it has already come at a time too late. In the blink of an eye two and a half decades have passed, and they have aged more years than in that time. The clock now races through another two-and-a-half decades which must not pass in the blink of an eye. I have gained a life from their givings, but no life I give to them can return a similar gift. 

Time, time. Time with them is something I already know I no longer have enough of. It tears me apart, breaks me down, and haunts my every waking moment. 

Sadness fills me.

I cannot fight time. Truly, no one can.