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He didn’t know which was worse, the guilt or the grief, and most of the time they were indistinguishable from each other, just a daily, ever-present sensation that he was suffocating.
If he truly had understood what that meant—that time runs out—he would have done it all so differently.
If life’s a joke and death’s the punch line, in any good setup, you never see it coming.
Because if we did understand, we would spend it all in the sun with the grass between our toes. What else was the point? We’re here, then we’re not. And before that and after that, the mountains stay put and the waves keep crashing and the storms come and go and none of any of that is aware that for a brief, fleeting moment, we were here too.
None of it, none of us, matter. And once you see it, once you get it, once you’re free from the false belief that you think you have time, you can just enjoy it for what it is. And it is all so, so beautiful.
Because what is the whole without the individual? If we do not care for the life of one person, how do the lives of millions have meaning?
