The days I've felt alive can be counted and recalled with exact names describing them, but not exact times.

I've wondered why for a while, scratching my head as I poured over the question. Then, I got it.

It was far more important that they happened, than when they happened. After all, people often celebrate a day for being miraculous, because of what happened on that day, but often fail to appreciate the miracle in of itself.

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Simply following tradition, and joining in on the festivities, the meaning of the event is lost. The day being more important than events and actions which may have inspired it.

What I'm trying to say is, these precious days of mine will always be remembered as important moments. Not important days.

It may be burdensome, but I'm not quite satisfied letting their meaning fade away into ashes. I'll carry on the meaning they had, till the day I close my eyes.

I hope.