Every morning I sit on this bench and watch the world wake up. It’s my spot. My altar to the sun and whatever gods still bother with me. The wood’s cracked, the view’s the same, but it’s mine. I drink my tea there. Always with lemon. At night, it’s a glass of red, cheap but honest. Sometimes I catch a breeze in what’s left of my hair and feel like I’m still part of the living.
The other night, I sat there and realized something sharp and simple: I probably won’t be here in two years. Maybe less. The thought didn’t scare me. It didn’t even make me sad. It just landed, quiet as dust, and stayed. I’m still here. Still standing. Facing the void on my own terms. Sometimes, I wrap my legs around a 150-horsepower machine and feel alive enough to forget the rest, the vertigo, the rebellion in my gut, the pain that hums beneath everything. It’s a reminder: I can still live, even when the body protests.
Some days, that living looks like collapse. Face down. Silent. Those are the days that gut me. Like the other day. I missed lunch with my kid. Couldn’t leave the house. Couldn’t let her see me twisted in pain like some broken thing. I miss her more than anything, but what do you show your child? The wreckage or the love? Tomorrow, I’ll see her. The love of my life. My reason to fight the storm.
I’ll fight this thing. Whatever it is, whatever it takes. And in between the battles, I’ll love, laugh, scream, smile, and stare into the abyss just to feel it stare back. Because that’s where life hides, the edge. Always the edge.
So here’s what I tell you, my friends: Live like you’ve only got one sunrise left. Hold the people who love you like they’re oxygen. Love them until it hurts. Be grateful for the dawn and humbled by the moonlight. Every breath you take is a loan from something bigger than you. Don’t waste it.
This is life. Raw. Unfair. Beautiful beyond reason.
Read this on Substack where it first appeared — if you’re into that sort of thing.
