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Years Won't Come Back

He got out of one of the bathrooms at the office. Deadened silence and the cold white of the neon-light.
He approached one of the five sinks lined up on the front wall to rinse his hands and face. Perhaps it would help him to finally wake up from his numb.
He looks at himself at the mirror, grinning.
An instant already seen, already lived. The same things: a piss, rinse the hands, a grimace in the mirror.
When it was the last time? Last week, a couple of months ago, last year?
He didn’t know…
He closed the tap, put his hands to the sides of the sink and stared at himself into the mirror, his eyes in his eyes trying to look inside.
Was he wasting his time? Was he leaving his life slipping on him?
Not being able to respond as he would have liked was a heavy, and still glossy, thing to accept.
He reviewed that day, then the previous one, and so backward. Almost immediately he realised he could not remember what he had done just a few days earlier, last week, in the past months.
Days and days stacked, one behind each other until they become only one: monotonous, flat, banal.
Working days, made of stress and boredom. Then maybe a moment at the gym, go shopping, go home; and then cook, clean, iron, try to watch a movie on tv while busy on the web.
Time to kill time, that's what all his days were: routine of days that disappear from the memory as soon as they have been passed by. The days of that year as well as the previous one, like the ten years of work, the five years of the university, all those in the school ...
Soon he will be 40, about 15,000 days already lapsed…
What did he remember about all that time?
How many days left a trace in his memory?
How many days, in the entire lifetime, are really worth to be lived?

He smiled bitterly as kept looking straight into his eyes while realising that they were only a small, very small percentage. And even those he had thought as good days were now just blurry photographs, snapshots of moments he could not remember anymore.
Maybe he should have started writing a list, trying to put together all the pieces of his memories together.
To find a meaning, to convince himself that it was worth it, after all.
To find something that could justified all that trickling of monotonous days just waiting for an important one.
Perhaps he should have tried to make every day exceptional.
Or maybe he should have stop worrying about time, because every moment he has lived is irretrievably forgotten…

The door opened and a colleague came in.
“Are you trying to kiss yourself?” He said smiling.
He laughed, and began to rinse his hands.

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