Ancestral Death Math

     Sometimes in idle moments, I indulge in what I’ve termed Ancestral Death Math.

     Mom died at 54, Dad at 62. I’m always saying how I’m so old now, and only sort of joking. By my own calculations, I’m half dead yet. Or close to half way at least.

     This affects my moods a lot. I oscillate wildly, rapidly, from one extreme to the other.

     At once I’m alight, burning with this urgency this wild desire to DO IT ALL, NOW! There are so many sights, wonders, tastes, skies, and stories living out there, somewhere my heart beats more fully and I have to go find it. Break free from this monotonous 40-hour work week, this always-tired-never-fulfilled doldrum drudge- fake my own death and flee for a border, laughing loudly and blasting music as I speed off…

     And the pendulum swings back around, and I am mired in memories and the shadows they cast on everything. Shipwrecked on a mattress, unable to face the abyss and the echos of WHY BOTHER, nothing matters in the end. Taking risks to live freely seems a waste of what precious time I have, when I already live more comfortably than most humans who ever existed. Why not live peacefully at the windowsill?

         And by being caught in between paths, I don’t seem to get much done at all.

     My dad’s 63rd birthday is today. I was going to write something for him, about him, to him, but I can’t seem to find the words yet. Hopefully I will, sooner rather than later.

    I don’t want to die in the in between space.