Four Thousand Weeks
The art of noticing before it’s gone
Another year passed.
Didn’t count candles. Didn’t make a list. Just did the math.
Four thousand weeks, if you’re lucky.
Around seventy summers.
Seventy Christmases.
Seventy more chances to taste rain on pavement before it stops feeling new.
And I’ve already spent more of them than I want to admit.
It’s not halfway yet, but close enough to feel the hum — that soft panic in the bones when you realize you’re no longer new to the world, but you’re still far from figuring it out.
The other night, Half Life by David Duchovny came on.
“Half my life gone by, still don’t know what I’m looking for.”
And I thought, maybe that’s the point.
Not knowing, but still wanting.
I’ve spent years trying to outsmart time.
Work harder. Feel deeper. Stay busy enough to forget the count.
But the truth doesn’t care. It just keeps moving, one sunrise at a time.
These days, I don’t want forever.
I want what’s real — the small, fleeting moments that remind me I’m still alive.
The way light falls across a face.
The sound of a voice that makes you forget yourself.
The quiet after laughter when everything still feels possible.
Sometimes I think about the younger me —
the one who thought love was proof instead of presence.
He was loud, restless, certain he had forever.
I wish I could tell him: you made it.
Maybe that’s what a half life really is.
Not a countdown, but a realization.
That meaning doesn’t live in the years ahead or the ones already gone.
It’s hiding in the ordinary moments we never stop long enough to notice.
Four thousand weeks.
Seventy summers.
A few left that still belong to me.
And yeah, I’ll still waste some of them.
Sleep too late. Scroll too long.
Forget to call back.
But at least now it’ll be on purpose.
Maybe that’s the real gift — knowing it ends, so you finally start paying attention.
The sun will hit the water just right again someday.
And maybe this time, I’ll notice.
// Scorpio Veil