It's weird how a person becomes most warm and comforting in the final moments of their lives. I suppose it is possible for this person to become bitter and angry, but in the case most close to my life, this man finds a need to hug, to hold hands, to talk, to communicate, to invite and share and connect and love in the final days of his life. That in itself is not remarkable. What is remarkable is understanding final days. Roses will bloom again in the spring. Grass will turn green. Wind will continue to blow and clouds will form and dissolve. Forever. But the person who contemplates tomorrow may not exist is courageous.
I wish I could write something that will live forever, like a poem or a defining song, and that would live after I am gone like the stars that twinkle endlessly and the brook that effortlessly creates beautiful music until the end of days. But my words need a reader and my song needs an audience and as much as my art is enjoyed, the listener will dissolve and generations of listeners will turn to dust and so will I.
Do I envy the ant or the rabbit or the sparrow or the dog? Do I envy the puffy clouds or the snow? Would I trade places with Mars or Neptune or Venus or Pluto? or
Xena (or is it
Eris?). Would I trade my humanity and mortality for these?
I ran in the cool air today. I thought about my pain. I thought about my goals. I ran for myself and created something for which I was proud. I won't be able to run forever, but I ran today and I am grateful.
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