On Birthdays

I used to cherish the years I had accumulated

With every cycle I seemed to be
Getting somewhere

The years were a sign, the proof that I was not
Stagnant

And every one of them was welcomed with open hands and joyed upon

Nowadays
I deem no celebration necessary

For I am free to celebrate whenever suitable

Not having to be bound by any
Special occasion

A good feeling is reason enough to feast about

Instead of forcing the deed
On some peculiar time
Of some particular day

Every fucking year

.

.

.

.

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