She just turned twenty-two on this lunar year March 6th
Just about to throw away her textbook and see the world
But, she realized there’s much trouble she needs to face
Sometimes she wishes she could return to when she was twelve
When her only responsibilities were going to school, simple, without worries
She’s like a flower bud full of hope
The days between January 29 seem to draw closer together, and filling them in with a series of nothings seems easier—these blue skies meld in and out of each other too fast for me to follow. This is what writers mean when they say life is short: life in itself is a series of long drawn out days that converge into a single moment, gone before anyone ever acknowledged its existence.
I’ve been thinking of Paul Kalanithi’s words: A sigh, and the earth continued to rotate back toward the sun. In some ways, the fact of my own mortality hangs above my head. I am reminded of it daily—my medical books are elaborate descriptions of ways to delay death, my patients are flesh and blood reminders of how debilitating disease can be, my classmate(who was faithful, kind, and God-fearing)’s very recent passing is a painful reminder of the unpredictability and brevity of life.
Am I more like Grindelwald? Shall I die just a little as the days crawl past? Shall I feel my youth wane and my joints grow heavy? Shall I feel my skin sag and smile helpless as my (eventual) grandchildren toy with my chicken wing arms? Perhaps I shall. Even this slow wasting seems like a brief moment in the greater scheme of things.
We know this: humanity has lived long enough to become aware of our ephemeral existence. Still, we press on and attempt to carve out something substantial out from our numbered days. Still, we get up. We get dressed. We eat. We live. We read. We write.
I am not anxious about dying, or dying in pain. These may well be my end. I fear wasting the days before my demise. I fear blinking, and opening my eyes to another year gone without having improved myself, my relations, the world in the time span. And though I’ve been told (indirectly) that faith is not something desirable to have, I fear losing my faith. I fear watching it wane until it becomes ghostly and irrelevant to me. I fear my God turning away from me. I fear myself aiming for the earth again, and losing heaven in the process.
So, may this be the year I get up. Get dressed. Read. Write. Live. Act. Do. Resolve. Believe.
Perhaps, then I shall come into the next year satisfied with all my hands have done, and all my eyes have seen.