Dear diary,
Woah, it's been what, 2 weeks? Left this blog in abeyance longer than a self-respecting blogger should. Just so that you know this blog's not quite dead yet. No, not quite. If being dead's six foot under, I'm probably 4 foot a quarter with a little bit of organic compost over my head.
I wonder how it feels like to die. To kick the bucket. To meet your maker. To be off the twig. To be under the daisies. To take the last bow. To lay down your shovel. Ok, 'nuff said.
Life and death. What difference between the two makes one such exulted and the other so reviled. The obvious would be that life constitutes living, and being alive is the elementary and indispensable foundation of being human and eventually a possible progression to greatness. I think however, so sue me, that the difference isn't as colossal as what everyone makes it out to be. It's actually pretty simple, says the ignorant sq. I think the only difference that separates one from throwing the dirt and one being under it is choice. Just choice.
In death you do not choose. Or rather you do not have the luxury of choosing. There are so many different religions, myths and folklore that dictates where one goes when he dies. You could be judged, reincarnated, tormented. You could experience utopia, flight, lightness. You could wander the earth that made and swallowed you, in ethereal existence, purposeless. Or you could just become a void, you cease to exist. You can have so many different fates, but none are of a choice to you.
And choice is the empowerment of life. We choose how we should lead it. We can wallow in pittance and mediocrity for our entire lives and die not knowing its meaning. We can also lap up every moment and embrace the very air that keeps us beating, living as if everday were our last. Choice.
I realise as I blog today that I've made so many bad choices in my life. I chose subsistence over enlightenment. I chose superficiality over genuinity. I chose shortcuts over hardwork. And the choices that I make. How far have my choices, bad and good, paved the road that leads to the particular death that awaits me, a final passageway in which I am bound and helpless. And that frightens me. As with what frightens all man in their dying years. Not death itself, but the choiceless path that carries on thereafter.
If living life as I have been thus far been a careless, reckless and selfish one, one day I might realise that I would have been better off dead from the start. If only I knew.
Woah, it's been what, 2 weeks? Left this blog in abeyance longer than a self-respecting blogger should. Just so that you know this blog's not quite dead yet. No, not quite. If being dead's six foot under, I'm probably 4 foot a quarter with a little bit of organic compost over my head.
I wonder how it feels like to die. To kick the bucket. To meet your maker. To be off the twig. To be under the daisies. To take the last bow. To lay down your shovel. Ok, 'nuff said.
Life and death. What difference between the two makes one such exulted and the other so reviled. The obvious would be that life constitutes living, and being alive is the elementary and indispensable foundation of being human and eventually a possible progression to greatness. I think however, so sue me, that the difference isn't as colossal as what everyone makes it out to be. It's actually pretty simple, says the ignorant sq. I think the only difference that separates one from throwing the dirt and one being under it is choice. Just choice.
In death you do not choose. Or rather you do not have the luxury of choosing. There are so many different religions, myths and folklore that dictates where one goes when he dies. You could be judged, reincarnated, tormented. You could experience utopia, flight, lightness. You could wander the earth that made and swallowed you, in ethereal existence, purposeless. Or you could just become a void, you cease to exist. You can have so many different fates, but none are of a choice to you.
And choice is the empowerment of life. We choose how we should lead it. We can wallow in pittance and mediocrity for our entire lives and die not knowing its meaning. We can also lap up every moment and embrace the very air that keeps us beating, living as if everday were our last. Choice.
I realise as I blog today that I've made so many bad choices in my life. I chose subsistence over enlightenment. I chose superficiality over genuinity. I chose shortcuts over hardwork. And the choices that I make. How far have my choices, bad and good, paved the road that leads to the particular death that awaits me, a final passageway in which I am bound and helpless. And that frightens me. As with what frightens all man in their dying years. Not death itself, but the choiceless path that carries on thereafter.
If living life as I have been thus far been a careless, reckless and selfish one, one day I might realise that I would have been better off dead from the start. If only I knew.
posted by sq @ 11:16 PM
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