Words. Sometimes. Maybe...: I'm Only Looking Out For You

With unlimited means and unlimited time, wouldn’t you grow bored? Doesn’t the brevity of life give it its meaning? If it lasted forever, if knees never creaked, voices never grew dry and husky, if hair never turned gray, if we always healed with ease, if all of this just kept going, would it even be worth it? With so much to do, the mere prospect of so many volumes to explore and adventures to have makes me tired. It makes me want to hole up in my room and waste away an eternity or two underneath my comforter. It will still be here, I will still be here, next millennia. And the next. And the next.

That’s why every moment stolen is so much more than any moment given or owned; it’s a leg up on the tick-tock clocks tick-tocking closer to claim us. Pushing on the limits of what is allowed by the constraints of imminently creeping, eventually pouncing, death expands them. I can’t tell if the box started out huge and has been inching closer or if it began skintight and I’ve wiggled and haggled my way to a room-sized life which will eventually collapse hard and fast upon me, capsizing when my arms are too weak and too tired to keep the walls at bay.

When my fingers are no longer nimble enough to steal moments, when they shake too fiercely for me to pick pocket the grim reaper, I hope to use all of the feeble strength that I can muster to launch myself into the wall with some sort of finality. Perhaps I will be strong enough, use the momentum and my bodyweight to fracture something in the foundation of the cell of life. I hope to glimpse something outside this box before a chillingly cool hand grips mine with a strength I’ve never had. Perhaps if I were to ask nicely, there will simply be a door.

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I don't really know how much of that makes any sense.

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