Book deadlines bring out bad thoughts in my head.
Right now, it’s cold, and I’m on deadline.
Sometimes I wonder how people don’t dwell upon the inevitability of death. I mean, I get if you believe in Jesus and heaven and all that jazz. But what if you’re a guy like me? A guy who is quite certain that, when you die, you die? How can people in my shoes not think about the rapidly descending airplane that’s about to crash into the ground? About the hands of time ticking, ticking, ticking away. We’re all going to die, and with each passing second we get closer and closer and closer to the end. Billions of people have had these thoughts, and now they’re all dead. Ben Franklin. Martin Luther King. John Lennon. My grandparents. My great-grandparents. All lived, all pondered death, all found ways not to obsesses—all no longer exist.
There are mornings when I wake up and think, “Fuck, I can’t believe it. I’m going to die.” I eventually work it out of my brain, but then it returns—just as strong. I’m gonna die. I’m gonna die. I’m gonna die. I end up looking for slogans; for positive vibes about living for today; embracing the moments; etc. It works.
But only for so long.