Telling one's age is silly: you are as old as you feel

Two hundred, eighty thousand, three hundred and twenty hours. How would one quantify his stay on earth?

With the number of cakes he sliced on his birth anniversaries,
the number of wrinkles on his forehead,
the thousand haircuts he had to go through,
the tons of food he consumed and wasted,
the number of times he disappointed his family and God,
the hundred celebrations he attended with his victories,
the number of times he faltered and stumbled,
the gallons of alcohol he drank,
the hundred thousands kisses he had given away,
the million miles he travelled,
the phone calls he made and received,
the number of fights he started and gotten into;
the hearts he had broken,
or how about the buckets of tears he shed,
the cackles of laughter that emanated from his throat,
the hundred confessions he said to a listening priest,
the mornings he rose to watch the sunrise,
the sunsets he shared with a friend,
the rose buds he plucked and smelled,
the number of people he helped,
the friends he made,
the lives he mended and enriched.

Had I lived my life? I don't know, if you'd ask me; maybe yes, maybe no – maybe for a few moments or a hundred days. Am I at a crossroad? Maybe I had already walked passed it or I haven't reached it yet, but I am planning of making one now, for there's no time to wait as the old adage of time is but fleeting rings in your head.

It's time to start living my life; I'll start writing my stories today.