Here’s a recurring thought I often force myself to have.

A lot of experiences seem finite. We use counting adjectives to describe them (unless you are a supermarket): fewer, many, some. These are things like going to Disneyland — I’ve been once — or eating shark –- I’ve never done this –– or visiting the St. Louis Gateway Arch –- I’ve done this 4 times.

But mostly we think of experiences as infinite (or truncated infinite, maybe, if we’re paying attention). We use non-counting adjectives to describe them: some, lots, any, much. I eat lots of spaghetti. I go to some Broadway plays. I have so much money. I don’t have any bad habits.

And so I try to remind myself that all experiences are finite, countable. Which can be sad. Like there is a literally finite number of conversations I will have with my friend Jared. Maybe it’s 2,132. I don’t know, but there will be a last one. And a second-to-last one. And one that is half-way between the first and last. There is a finite number of times that I will (get to) eat tacos. A finite number of times that I will have sex with Kimberly. A finite number of times I will wear this black sweater I really like. A finite number of times I will pick Maxx up before she becomes un-pick-upable at some inevitably approaching point in time.

I guess this makes you think things are precious and makes you want to pay attention. Which it does. But mostly I just like thinking about it because it makes my mind feel weird. Which is also interesting.

(themadeshop.tumblr.com)