Keeping Hope Alive

At some point over the last several months, I crossed the line into having lived more of my life without parents than with parents. It's a strange thing to consider, but most of all, I'm glad I'm alive. My father lived to the age of 48; I hope I outlive him by at least 50 years.

I'm acutely aware that we only have one life, we only have one chance. There are no do-overs, there's no "gee, what a great death!" banquets awaiting us - any romance about death to me is silly. Die for this, die for that; good for you, but guess what? You're not coming back. Ever. And your "memory" goes away too. At some point, nobody will care. Hell, they barely do now, while you're alive. The universe, as far as we know it, is for the living.

I have felt the hellhound on my tail, and I have no desire to meet him. I will run like a motherfucker. Every moment I'm alive is one more moment I'm not dead.

The more I learn the less I know, but I do know one thing: it ain't no sin to be glad you're alive.