Have been thinking a lot about death once again.
It usually happens in the morning, when I’m lying in bed. I used to like thinking about death, because it motivated me to live. Now, however, it merely reminds me that we’ll all be dead.
Which isn’t so wonderful.
Sometimes I think this—all of this—is just a way of distracting us from our inevitably awful demise. Movies, music, Facebook, Twitter, blogs, theme parks, TV shows, dogs, restaurants—all distractions from the Big Ending, which is more ending than big. There’s a part of me—an enormous part—that wants to live forever. It seems like that’d erase thise horrible fretting over my demise. Yet living forever would be no better. Because others would die before me. And while I can live with you dying and her dying and him dying, I can’t live with my kids dying. Not before I do.
Which creats quite the Catch 22.
Every so often I’m OK with death. The air is warm, the sky is blue, I’m running around with the tykes, happy, happy, cherishing the moment and thinking, “This is great! I’m so blessed!” But then, inevitably, night falls. Then morning comes. Then I remember … death.
I could be dead now, as you’re reading this. It’s true. Maybe it’s a week from now, and I’ve been hit by a car. Maybe it’s 10 years from now, and I had some disease. Maybe it’s 50 … 60 … 70 years from now, and you’re my grandchild, looking back through my old etchings.
Am I dead?
Am I alive?
The oddest part—I’m happy. Genuinely happy. Love my life, my wife, my kids, my pet. It’s a grand existence, and I just don’t want it to end.