I fear being forgotten, most of all. I shiver at the thought of years rolling by with nothing but dried flowers and melted candles on top my epitaph but not a human soul visiting nor remembering.
. . . . . . . .
The commonness of this morning enlivened these fearful thoughts. I opened my eyes realizing that I am (considering that I die of old age) a year closer to my grave. How does one act joyously on such special occasions if the mind is plagued by such sordid thoughts?
. . . . . . .
Happy Birthday to me. At least my Mom, cousins and some acquaintances didn't forget my birthday.