The universe is thirteen billion years old, and it will go on – most likely – for thousands and millions of billions of years. In all the time that was, and in all the time that ever will be, there will never be another me. For one hundred years, born from one eternity and destined for another, I am here, alive, aware.
When all the stars, galaxies, planets and moons and asteroids, and when every single solid thing has been transformed to heat dispersed throughout the universe, and nothing remains, a trillion billion years hence, there will not have been another me.
At the end of my life, do I really want to look back at a long stretch of 9-5 days spent in a cubicle gathering material things which I’m too tired to enjoy after that 5pm? Then, when I’m done, do I want to look back and nod and think “I did live”?
Yes. I do. I don’t want to waste a day. I don’t want one day to go by without having experienced something. I don’t want to be that fifty-year old that sourly moan about youth who don’t choose a job, a career, a fucking washing machine, a television, or that whole Renton-outburst from Trainspotting.
And you know what? Whoever force someone to choose that, or worse who force someone to end their lives is scum. Filth. Not even worthy of being called human, because they are aware and they know about our few decades in the endless eternity, and they still insist that they and everyone else should waste it on non-existence.
I’ll chose life, not a future someone else has ordained for me. I’ll think, write, love, live, hate, advocate. I’ll get up in the morning, and look for an experience. I’ll go to bed in the evening having learned something new. I will not work to exist, nor exist to work.
And I will never, ever do what this sad git said to me today when we were down town. He saw me sitting there jamming with the guitar, and his face twisted up, and told me to do something ‘useful’ instead of bothering people. Nope. Never. Ever. He can squander his few decades and years, but I will not.
I spent the day with some old friends from College, and we sat down-town. Since I often have the guitar with me, because I’m one of those artsy geeky types that suddenly burst into song, we did some jamming.
It was a good day out; the weather was miserable, but we’re English, and we damned well should be used to that. As long as we have cover over our heads, and as long as we have warm clothes, we do all right.
Mark was with us, too, so it was a good day, except for the interruption by the bloke that caused the above rant. 🙂 I wrote, I loved, I sang, and I got wet. Isn’t that a perfect day?