When I was little, adults spoke about age as if it were a jail sentence.
In years to serve.

Forty.
Fifty.
Sixty.
Each number sounded like another chain link.
Heavy.

Predictable.

Forever clinking behind them.

I remember frowning, counting on my fingers, thinking,
"This math can’t be right."

Then, the history books.
Julius Caesar, emperors, calendars, debates,

and the Gregorian fixes.
Whole empires rearranging time itself.

And I thought,
“Someone decided how we measure life, and they all just nodded?” 🤔

Time, the Trickster

When I was fifteen, a year felt eternal.
Now, I blink and lose one before breakfast.

Two mornings ago, I was blooming.
Today, that calendar swears I’ve aged.

Numbers! Such liars.
They pretend to measure something they can’t touch.

So, I stopped letting them.

The Sunrise Calendar

One morning, I switched systems.
Now, I count sunrises. 🌅

Every sunrise means:
another laugh,😂

another adventure,
another breath on this wild, spinning planet.😅

Today? I have 20,480 sunrises in my pocket calendar.
(And yes, I loved almost every single one. ❤️

Cloudy days don’t count. I have standards. ☁️

The Rebellion

The best part of counting sunrises instead of years?
You delete the old programming.

No emperor.
No rulebook.
No ticking clock decides when to bloom, rest, or reinvent.

You start to see the world like a beginner again,
hopeful,

wide-eyed, 👀

delighted by possibility.💖

So, here’s my official declaration:
Today is my Sunrise Day. 🌞

Bring chocolate.
And maybe a little champagne for good measure.

As for the days of the week?
Oh, I rewrote those, too.
But that’s a story for another sunrise.