Why do we have such a short time to live such pointless lives?
I just saw my life flash before my eyes. I'm young now, but soon I'll be 30, married, and with 2 kids...then I'll turn 40 and every day I'll look in the mirror and see faint wrinkles and gray hairs and realize I'm not young anymore...and then in 20, 30, even 40 years, my kids will have long left college and set out to make their mark on the world, not yet realizing the futulity of it all and that no matter how painstakingly they carve their names into the headstone of history, time will erase it all...and then I'll look in the mirror once again and see a shell of a person who is slowly withdrawing into themselves, eyes heavy with the weight of the world...and I'll look at my children and see the same thing happening to them, flecks of gray appearing in their hair, the spark of life that always shone brightly in their eyes slowly fading...and then I'll be truly old and lying in a hospital bed, IV tubes and morphine drips barely anchoring me to life, my children and grandchildren gathered around my bedside, all of them thankful that if medicine is incapable of extending my life, then at least it can grant me a peaceful departure...and although human instinct urges me to fight, to rage against the dying of the light, my own humanity is telling me to let go...and I realize that this was never how I wanted go, because it seems so unnatural and so, so human, clinging on to the precious morsels of life and hoping it'll be enough to sustain for just a little bit longer, to pretend that your life had a point, a reason to extend it...and then I'll finally understand that everything I never had a chance to do was not worth doing, and that I wanted to die in the heat of battle and at the prime of my life, when I still believed that my actions could make a difference, and when I still had the energy to run, and the spark of life hadn't faded, and my hair was free of gray, when my senses were bright and clear and did not lie, and far, far before time had a chance to wear me down and slowly kill me. And I'll open my mouth to tell them this, to make them understand, to force them to see what future they were facing, and then time will finally catch up with me and, although everyone subconciously will expect some kind of warning, some clue of what will happen, there will be none. I'll slowly exhale a shuddering breath and the final wisp of life will go out with it, leaving me cold and still. My family will mourn, bringing flowers to my grave and telling each other how wonderful and long my life had been, and how I had done so much, still clueless to how ridiculously mundane and pointless it all was, but they'll move on with their lives, and my very memory will soon be forgotten.