Many words, Little Time: Birthday

Aging. Decay. A birthday.

The day your body was birthed.
The day you ceased to be contained within another
Expulsion day.

The earth orbits the sun.
The pattern of information that is a person has staved off entropy,
for now.
So we celebrate.

Some are over joyed,
a party where you’re unquestionably the centre of attention.
Some are terrified,
a tangible sign that death is one year closer.
And some just don’t give a damn,
a day like any other.

The date may be arbitrary,
but all holidays are.
We need them,
they help us live.
They help us carve meaning into an uncaring cosmos.
The modern feast day.

But which do we celebrate,
the past or the future?
The accomplishments that have passed,
or the ones to come?
The distance from birth,
or the approach of death?

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