F is for Finite.
I am. You are. We are. We all are.
Everything good and or bad about us. And after a time there will be nothing left of us but stories and most of those will be fictional.
F is for fictional too.
F is for fumbling.
I am fumbling for words so I'll try a song. Someone else's.
So long ago I sat in a cold, late autumn kitchen, smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee and wondering why there was no more heat. And I watched people down on the turnpike bunched into their coats and huddled into the Long Island autumn wind. There's nothing to block the wind when everything is flat, or maybe a building here and there but mostly there is no shelter. And it's just damn cold. It was cold that day anyway. I think that was the first day I fully grasped that everything comes to an end, just like my cup of coffee and the cigarette burning down way too quickly in my hand. I realized fully even then when I was less than half the age I am now and I could not have even imagined being the age I am now. It didn't seem possible.
Just like the summer green is finite and becomes the brown of fall, and then actually falls, I am finite. The difference between now and then is that I fully grasp that even turning brown and falling isn't guaranteed. There are winds.
And there are winds.
F is for finite.