Time flies by, without me heeding the ebb and flow. I age another day. Another million cells die, and inevitably get replaced: today, another horde of erythrocytes disintigrate under the deluge of bile, and the many that lay in wait are now called to action. Today is the last day of February, I would not have noticed if someone didn't mention it. I am still at home, and a few knots still cry out at me. They beg to be untangled. I fear I am unable to do so, and so look on at them, and will them to see through me and witness my ineptness.
I am not unfeeling, I feel, and yet I still stand. Detachment has prevented me from breaking down. I am reminded of surgeons who slice through flesh with a steady hand and eye - they do not wince. Words cannot assuage the grief behind the tears that flow in the dead of the night. They are not mine, still, as with any great emotion, it is best to let it loose until that which fuels it is milked dry, and so I endure. The thought of my departure later makes me worry. Two younger and purer hearts are here, too. I do not wish to mar them, and so I hope, against all hope, that whatever strength and confidence I showed them over the years has been imbibed into their being.
Things are still to come, all in tune to the great symphony of time, and I wish that by then, it wouldn't be to late.