16 November 2011

Bad night's sleep

Bad night's sleep last night. And in the haze of this morning's lamplight -- just the latest thing to prevent me from giving over to unconscious -- I see my own pulse, under my biceps. It's not coursing; it's gently pushing.


Such a fragile thing. And such a remarkable thing, that for us, life often lasts 70, 80, 90 years. (In 2006, a turtle named Adwaita that was born in 1760, died.)

My father died this year, at substantially fewer years than that turtle. Too few years, his friends and my family and I would all say. Yet, we all say he lived a full life. So which is right: Full life or too few years? Or is it a third option, I can only voice tentatively, and only now with distance and reflection on: A year too many?

That was Eastertime. He was taken from us during the season of birth and new life. So now that it's Thanksgiving, should I be bitter, sardonic and cursing the gods? Is the happiness in life just a mask we project on what is actually bound for a horrible end for us all, either suddenly and tragically or slowly and painfully, as Will Sheff says?

No, not horrible.

I'm going with too short -- be it at 37 years, 75 years, or 255, and sifted through the filter of quality of life. May the knees stop working before the mind. And be thankful.

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