Scientists say all our cells are replaced every seven years.
I plan to scoop up my old cells and reassemble my seven old selves. Throw them a big pity party as a distraction. Then leap naked and shameless into my latest incarnation.
*
People and things are like cells—replaced, time and again.
Like a goldfish named Sonny replaced by an identical goldfish named Cher in the fishbowl of our youth. Like the queue of father figures stepping into our angry fathers’ shoes.
*
Humans are glorified cells of the Earth.
But the Earth doesn’t need us the way it needs bees. According to a recent survey, three out of four of my friends say: the Earth needs us like geese need molten lava.
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Now imagine each of your cells is an individual:
complete with a personality, pet peeves, and secret pain. Imagine bacteria cells roaming your body’s inner prairie like the tiniest bison.
*
The cells dally and gossip their lives away, but a few quiet cells know their time is a wisp of match-light. They marvel at the magnificent vistas within your body: their whole world. They wonder if other perfect bodies with intelligent life could exist elsewhere, in the mystery of outer space.
This piece at 5:05 AM: Cell Balm. Thanks.
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Superb!
(Not the most insightful or intelligent of responses, I know, but heartfelt nonetheless.)
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