The finitude of my breath continues to haunt me. Its not death that I fear, its dying, and not the knowledge that I am going to die, but the wondering if I’m already in the process each day. Its really sobering to me when I’m in a random public place and I see a really old person, hair grey and face wrinkled from the years, struggling to move about like they once did. I’ve found myself looking at people like this, realizing that tomorrow it will be me, and wondering “what’s it all for?”

Perpetual mid-life crisis, my life.

Sometimes I try to numb it with distractions… anesthetize it with entertainment, a romantic interest, or the work that I do that’s supposed to have ‘eternal significance.’ I try to squeeze purpose out of a job that culture says is supposed to be overflowing with it, but sometimes I just fail. Or I tack the smile on my face, and say all the right things, because I know that those things are what the world needs, whether I believe them or not.

Other times I indulge in it, denying myself nothing… filling the purpose vacuum with sarcastic comments, cutting people down because I can, fixing my thoughts on things that are not real or ever will be. The logic: the more pleasure I feel, the less I feel the meaninglessness

At least having people around who understand gives me energy, but when I look, there’s no one. Most people don’t care, because they don’t see the finitude of their breath. Man… its refreshing to talk to people who know they are going to die soon, and who are living accordingly… every ounce of them is focused towards a goal.


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