The doctor said I only had about a thousand words before my life would end. I do not know which upsets me more, knowing my end is imminent or the revelation of that info being made to me during my doctors lunch break as he happened to pass by my room. What if he wasn't hungry? What if my door was shut? What if I were asleep? What if I hadn't come in because my wrist felt funny? I wonder about all of these things simultaneously, as the tracks in my mind become packed with trains of thought. The traffic exponentially expands into a gridlock, and I can't think straight. "Did you hear me?" says the doctor from the open doorway to my room. The sound of their voice snaps me out of my momentary meltdown. I nod, already fighting the urge to say "yes". As they walk away, the trains begin to run again. Have I lived a full life? What even is a full life? Is it living a set amount of time? 175 Does living a full life mean leading an existence of constant excitement? I've been on some adventures in my life, but were they the best ones I could have been on? Were they with the right people? Is life just a series of experiences connected loosely by faces that leave your mind when you've left them for too long? I'll never grow old enough to forget my children's names. I won't get the chance to feel disdain for growing pains. I have yet to meet a person who can stoke this dwindling flame and I don't think I will, my rose tinted glasses have shifted to gray. As I run out of words to utter I find myself resigned to my mind, admittedly somewhere I spend a lot of time but right now it's as if I have sought out shelter deep inside. The doctor did not say when I would die, but the word count being so low makes me think that I don't have a whole lot of time, it's maybe two thirty in the afternoon right now, and I'd be surprised if I make it past five. 365 I think that of all of the ways I could go, this is the most fitting. Being done in by that which I do too much of. Though they never mentioned directly that it was my incessant chatter that is the cause for my fatal condition, it was very implied. My friends always thought it was funny how I always had something to say, and now that I only can say so much, I'm lost for words. I should probably say something, I mean my parents have just been staring at me for the past ten minutes. Ever since the doctor came in and told me my word limit, I've been mute. Would you be in a talkative mood if someone told you you only have around a thousand words to live? My parents have this look in their eyes, a look I have only seen once before, I didn't like it before, and I don't like it now. 526 When I was five I decided it would be a good idea to climb my neighbors slide without permission. I should have asked for permission. The next thing I know I woke up in a hospital bed with blood on my hands and a pain in my head, like someone took the heaviest rock they could find and dropped it on me. It turns out it was the other way around, and I dropped myself on the heaviest rock I could find. I needed 14 stitches, and at the time I thought it was cool I had more stitches than years alive, my parents did not. They had this look in their eyes, like they almost lost something irreplaceable, or broken something unfix-able. They have that same look in their eyes as we stare at each other now. Though I think they look more confused then I am. 674 I kind of wish that a heavy rock HAD fallen on my head instead of this disease? Disorder? I still genuinely don't get what this whole talk myself to death situation is; but then again does anyone really get death? I can't fault myself for trying, yet I can't seem to come up with an explanation. What if that's the point, that it can't be explained, that it's not meant to be. Like the things I have done in my life, it's an experience, the only real difference being that it's one you can not talk about with other people after going through it. You know a thousand-ish words may not be a whole lot, but with the rise of acronyms during this internet age which I am a proud member of, combined with my decent interpretive dance ability, makes me think I could make this work, if only for a while. I know that I won't live past fifty, but realistically I could at the very least get a few more years under my belt. thirty-five maybe, I mean I'm twenty-five now, a hundred words a year, that's manageable. Through prudence in speech, there is the chance for a few more experiences to share with friends, a few more moments to be cherished before they become scarce. I can work with this, I want to work with this, I have to work with this. I should probably say something, but then again what do I say? Having to be selective means I need to somehow pack “I'm ready to make the most of what I've got” into one-