the last year of my life
We will all die.
You do know that. Don't you?
Every last one of us. Dead, probably within 100 years.
150 years; all new people.
Sure.
We will all die.
Please don't be so cavalier about withholding your I Love You's. It's something you have in infinite supply.
We will all die. It's inevitable. No amount of anything can stop this inexorable event. Nobody is exempt.
And if you live with this ever present in your mind. Then what? What kind of a Life will you create? What choices will you make with this flag raised, full and billowing red over your left shoulder? Who will you keep close? Who will you walk away from? Who will you kiss late into the night, expectations jettisoned, only the soft pillowness of their open lips and how yours can stroke them in fresh new ways in every moment; this your only concern.
We will all die.
I will die.
I will die.
There's a relief in knowing it's something I can't stop from happening.
Not my responsability. Something that just is. On, and then off.
I will die.
Me, no more.
Who will regret not knowing me?
Who will claim they did?
Who will find my passing of absolutely no consequence?
Who will find it catastrophic?
Will the Sense of my Life finally become apparent?
A run-on sentance finally punctuated with a period.
This is the last year of my Life. I don't know how long it will last. What is Beauty in this case? What's imperative to accomplish? What, finally, can be seen for what it really is; irrelevant?
And what in this The Last Year of My Life also needs to be capitalized?
And more...
I am finally satisfied that I am living an interesting life, a life I will be happy to have lived when viewed through my final breath. I wish to have the courage and energy to keep it up. To choose the path that leads through night to sunrise. To say "Yes". To know the difference between Fear and Discernment. That Envy is a nasty indicator of Desire. That Loving, like Forgiving, is a choice to be made a million times a day. To understand that Quiet is not Depression. To have eyes for the Beauty in the Grotesque. To know all people as Friend, met and unmet. To really understand that I live on a Planet not in a country. To have Compassion when I don't. When you don't.
Happy Christmas, Love.
You do know that. Don't you?
Every last one of us. Dead, probably within 100 years.
150 years; all new people.
Sure.
We will all die.
Please don't be so cavalier about withholding your I Love You's. It's something you have in infinite supply.
We will all die. It's inevitable. No amount of anything can stop this inexorable event. Nobody is exempt.
And if you live with this ever present in your mind. Then what? What kind of a Life will you create? What choices will you make with this flag raised, full and billowing red over your left shoulder? Who will you keep close? Who will you walk away from? Who will you kiss late into the night, expectations jettisoned, only the soft pillowness of their open lips and how yours can stroke them in fresh new ways in every moment; this your only concern.
We will all die.
I will die.
I will die.
There's a relief in knowing it's something I can't stop from happening.
Not my responsability. Something that just is. On, and then off.
I will die.
Me, no more.
Who will regret not knowing me?
Who will claim they did?
Who will find my passing of absolutely no consequence?
Who will find it catastrophic?
Will the Sense of my Life finally become apparent?
A run-on sentance finally punctuated with a period.
This is the last year of my Life. I don't know how long it will last. What is Beauty in this case? What's imperative to accomplish? What, finally, can be seen for what it really is; irrelevant?
And what in this The Last Year of My Life also needs to be capitalized?
And more...
I am finally satisfied that I am living an interesting life, a life I will be happy to have lived when viewed through my final breath. I wish to have the courage and energy to keep it up. To choose the path that leads through night to sunrise. To say "Yes". To know the difference between Fear and Discernment. That Envy is a nasty indicator of Desire. That Loving, like Forgiving, is a choice to be made a million times a day. To understand that Quiet is not Depression. To have eyes for the Beauty in the Grotesque. To know all people as Friend, met and unmet. To really understand that I live on a Planet not in a country. To have Compassion when I don't. When you don't.
Happy Christmas, Love.
posted by iorchid at 2:04 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home