Happy Birthday to Me.

Sitting here, on this cold stone slab, I come to realize that I am more comfortable with the dead than with the living. It's my birthday, and I come to the only place that comforts me.

The living rush about, going from place to place, running here and there. Making decisions and fretting about all of the little things in their hectic world. Having so much to do, and so little time to do it in. Trying to impress whoever they can. Never really knowing how much time they have (or don't have). In such a hurry to live, that they forget to have a life. How many birthdays are forgotten in this mad rush of life?

But the dead are not in a rush. They are still and quiet, having nowhere to go, nowhere to be, no one to impress. They don't have to worry about dressing up. The only time someone comes to visit them is on their birthdays...the day they were born, or their "deathdays"...the day they died.
Usually with flowers in their hands, and an uncomfortable stance in their posture. Trite words that choke them with guilt and a relief when they can leave once again.
Funny how more birthdays seem to be remembered once the person is beyond caring about them.

How I envy the dead. I don't have a death wish, nor do I wish I were dead, but I envy the calm. The freedom from worries and regrets. I envy the fact that their birthdays are remembered.

220 words