How much is enough?
Is there any reason to the madness by which we rubber stamp a life "lived enough"?
I was watching something on the tele and a man who was telling a story mentioned his brother who had died a few months previously, aged 59. “Too young, too, too young.” he exclaimed.
Now, I was startled. Mozart only got to 35, Shakespeare just a few more years. Alexander, was he really great? He only got 33 years in. Did these men, did they “live enough”? I started laughing, a kind of Alan Watts absurdist laugh, one that mocks the folly of man, how we live by the thinnest of margins, of straws, of illusion-born laws.
“Don't cry, I need enough courage to die at the age of 20.” - Evariste Galois, last words.
It amazes me that for some reason, most cultures have a death stick. A way of measuring if a life has been lived enough. Die before it and it is uncontrollable weeping and gnashing of teeth. Die after it and it is just a nod and a curt, “His time had come.”
I ask, rather cheekily. What age is this age? What time, what age, is this “time come”? I truly don’t know and I do hope someone will inform me, so I can decide if I’ve lived enough.
What’s wrong, is the notion that life is a quantity, that our time spent here is a measurable thing. When, if you think about the vastness, the infinitude of time, before and to come, 80 might as well be the same as 20. And taking this argument even further, isn’t it not so much about the time we put in, as that which we are able to do, experience, nay I say “live” whilst here? Tell that to someone dying too young, you say! Yes, but what is “too young”?
I’d like to say that we’d all love to live forever. But I’m undecided about that, even though I do love the Oasis song dearly. A destination, having an end date seems to make the whole thing, the whole endeavor of “living” seem somewhat purposeful. Despite much evidence to the contrary.
However, I’m still wondering about that magic number that allows one to pass go, collect 200 dollars and then walk about proud, as if you’ve cheated death. Ultimately, the magic number that allows one to say goodbye, without causing too much pain to one’s family and friends. Please, tell me!
Born Into This
You were born into this
naked, beautiful, alive.
You were born into this
with no medals
no evil intentions
no language
no mansion
no credit card.
You were not
born into that,
a tabula rasa
good or bad
happy or sad
genius
or with a
golden spoon.
Crying, laughing
exploring, wondering
loving, caring
a babe with the wolves.
You were born into this.