Counting My Life

Last night I sat on my floor, making marks on myself. For two hours I sat there making tallies with my pen.

Each tally stood for something. Some of it was simple; the number of series of books I own, the family members I have. Others meant something more. They stood for the people who know my secrets, the mistakes I have made to those I love, or others stood for dreams that I know are far beyond my reach. Every line I drew means something a thousand times bigger than the ink it is made of.

For many of the tallies, I have forgotten the significance. Many of them meant something that spanned my entire being, but it has been left behind by my memories. One second drawing a line represents years of my life, then means nothing at all in the next moment. How odd it is to forget something that meant so much to me only hours ago.

By the end of the night, I had marked a thousand times. My arms and legs are black with the ink I used to count the meanings. I wonder how I was able to even have so many things worth marking in my short life.

Why did I start to count at all that night? I'm not sure. Perhaps it was insanity, my very rationality slipping away.

And so I keep adding to the tallies.