As of late, each of my birthdays is marked by a haiku concerning the date. Well, a prose poem of one-hundred and sixty characters, including spaces. I just went through the haiku written on my date of birth the last few years. For some strange reason, I was looking for a pattern of sorts. Last year, I turned kind of historical:

The only glee about turning sixty-eight is the year I consider central to my life. I was twenty-two. Sadly, the following years cannot but dampen my enthusiasm.

The year before was quite different in spirit. As a matter of fact, it had an existentialist touch to it:

Today I noticed that my house was a bit quieter than usual. Then I noticed that I felt a bit lonelier than usual. At last I realized it was my fucking birthday.

I was together with my beloved two years ago, and my haiku reflects it perfectly. It is no less than macabre:

Sixty fucking six today. And counting. My beloved put it splendidly as she wished me all the very best a few minutes ago: “All you need now is yet another six!”

I abandoned my search at this point in time. As is only appropriate, the only thing that brings all these haiku together is the date and nothing but the date. To wit, my birthdays have never meant very much to me. Sadly, though, I cannot but take notice of them. Date of birth is an essential part of this godforsaken civilization of ours.