All of our lives end. Why do we wait to realize this until it’s too late? Why is it only then that we think about the things we wish we would have done? Why then that we see the countless, frivolous things that consumed us as useless? Perhaps it’s part of what makes us human. I imagine that someone who made every minute decision based on whether or not it was justifiable to tombstones in a cemetery would be insufferable. And yet it’s hard to not feel a sense of regret at all the things we missed and mis-valued.
I know there are those who claim to see every day as precious, every interaction cherished. I both envy and believe them to be liars.
When will I learn this lesson, and is it even possible? Or am I doomed to live out my days flitting from one thing to the next, never fully understanding or appreciating anything? Or am I setting up a false dichotomy, over-simplifying what is, in fact, an impossibly tangled mess of decisions, indecisions, action, inaction, attempts, fears, understandings and misunderstandings, pride and regret?