Undated Journal Entry

January 3, 2019

Wait let’s start again.
There is only so much I can remember but I believe sunlight was important.
I’m in a tough spot with this.
I went to bed waiting to die because I thought it would be pleasing after so much sunlight and joy to go out on a high note like the last flash of a meteor as it rips through the atmosphere and not like the anticlimactic rumblings of a thunderstorm that just slowly got too far away to hear.

I crave it. A thunderstorm ending, like a dry patch of soil, but it never delivers.

Time continues on its arrow. There is no use in hoping that the thunderstorm will quiet your urges, for as long as there is a breath in your lungs you will wish for not this one, but the next strike. Not your life, but the next life. And as hopeless as this ship’s voyage might appear, destined as it is for the shoals of heat-death and the plausible end of our universe, the desire to live another day — not just our last, as a species — seems only rational, only right.

It cuts too deep, this yearning. It stops me in my tracks, brings tears, makes me envious of the colicky child, who can say what we’re all thinking:

“Let me be, in all conjugations!

Let my life, if it is to be of no great consequence, at least continue, until I can be a repository of sensory experiences on a morning talk show and have some value to the world, if only as a recycling bin.”

How terrifying to think that this might occur. Do we question whether our decagenarians misremembered Pearl Harbor? Whether they were occupied beating a small boy into racial submission when Kennedy was shot? Whether they have ever truly lived or if their survival is akin to a barnacle, a husk of accumulated minerals piggy-backing on the arc of history?

Such a death (such a life, Jake) is a troubling vision, best to be avoided by seeking warmth and creating warmth. By lighting a fire and letting others tend it. Such a life is to be avoided if only because it is so peculiarly human. Only we could devise an existence that spans a century without ever being anything but mean and then celebrate the dark arrival on the other side of the bridge with open arms, smiling coyly at the holstered sidearm.

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