CSI: Crime Scene Investigation
Word Count: 797
It's your birthday! If anything were possible, what would be your perfect way to celebrate?
There is never the possibility of anything being possible. That, in itself, would incline towards the possibility of the impossible being realised as reality, and of course, things such as bringing back the dead and buried, and turning back time, are things that certainly, can not happen. Only in movies can the impossible be done, and movies, are, of course, works of fiction, unless they are documentaries filmed with cameras as the real events unfold. The basic conclusion of this is that, not all things are possible, not all things can be done, or brought about to eventuation. So, while some wishes can come true, the impossible, still, can not be done, because if it is truly impossible, it simply, will never happen.
For over half my life, the birthdays I have had, and have celebrated, have been solemn, private affairs spent with my aunt. I have cake, I receive a jumper from her, or a vest, we share a lunch, or dinner, or whatever meal we chose, and then, if I am not already at home, or due somewhere else, I leave her company, and the celebration is finished with. When I was younger, I used to get a toy or two, along with the relevant jumper or other knitted creation, but, now that I am older, far older, I just get handmade knitwear, and am left to my own devices for most of the special day. Consequently, I have numerous jumpers and vests, one for each year I have lived. I wear the most recent, fitting ones, when it is appropriate, so I can truthfully tell my aunt that I have used them, just so I can keep Agatha happy. There is no harm in making the only surviving member of my family, other than me, pleasantly reassured in her belief that knitting me something every year is my true heart’s desire. To be truthful, I desire nothing more on my birthday than her company, the simple celebration of my getting another year closer to death, is not something I would be bothered with if I lived, truly, alone.
In my point of view, birthdays are shamelessly pointless causes for celebration. I have long since stopped caring how old I am, or how I may be aging. These are two things I can’t help but do. Time passes, I age, I grow older, these, are simple, irreversible, impossible to defeat facts of life. They can not be helped, they can not be changed, they can not be reversed or reordered to form a more pleasing outcome.
There are some people who think they can prolong death, alter their life’s course, their eventual appearance, by the use of Botox and surgery and other cosmetic, useless fixes for the supposed curse that is aging, that is growing older. Truly on my birthday every year, I do what I must, I visit my aunt, I share her cake, I take her present, and then, I continue my life as per normal. If I have to work, then so be it, if I have a day off, then so be it. I do not care that I am another year older, I do not care how different my face looks compared to how it looked on the birthday of the year previous. Time will pass, I will grow, and look, older, and, eventually, I will die, and I will find everlasting peace. I live while I am alive, I clime the professional ladder in the good work that I do, and that is all that can be asked of me. I can not make the impossible happen on my birthday, and it is not because I do not care for my birthday very much. I can never make the impossible happen, I can’t bring back the dead, resurrect my past, because that is what those things are, impossible. Birthdays, they change nothing for me, and they never will, because they are just pointless anniversaries, a random day of the year on which I was born, and which marks, every single year, my continued approach towards death and dying. I see nothing very useful in celebrating something like that, wasting a lot of my time, when I could be working, or cleaning, or doing a hundred, ultimately, more useful things. But, I do what I must on my birthday, I play the noble part of the last surviving child of a family that has been stamped and trampled on for so many decades, because, really, my aunt is the only person I have left, and I am the only person my aunt has left, and she, will be the first of us to die, so I might as well make her happy, and spend time with her, while I can.