Of a slow march to death

What scares me about time isn't just how relentless it is when bringing us to death, it's how we start literally feeling it closer. In our weak bones, stiff muscles. It seems to exist simply to deter us from neglecting this inexorable fate, but to force us to acknowledge and face constantly that we are already dying.

I hate feeling the death coming closer to my body through the agency of time. It sounds so rude to say such a thing, but then I can't really tell if this is right or wrong to be said, but there it goes: aging is a disease that can't be healed. We get weaker and everything starts malfunctioning. We lose power and energy. We get trapped in sad, boring routines in order to treat our health well.

And the dreadful part of it all is that we adapt. We get used to living to it. We adapt to this condition. And that's not beautiful or reassuring. On the contrary, it's scary. We forget what we used to have. In order to survive, we supress memories of great experiences from the past.

We die, little by little, day by day. Each day when we get to read one less page, we're already tired. Each day we learn one less thing for being too worried about others things. We become less sentient, we become more like zombies. It's like slowly drowsing away, without noticing our belongings and traits taken from us, one by one.