Sir Thomas Hobbs said, “the life of man [is] solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short.” My life? Not so much on the first four; I lucked out and happen to be a Western white girl—literally the only way this could get any better is if I were a guy. Or didn’t have a soul-crushing student loan balance.
Life is this weirdly liminal thing. It’s too short and it’s too long. I am everything and I am nothing. (Side note: is it just me that’s fascinated by the fact that the star of one life is a bit player in others’?) Life is too short not to love wherever and however much you can, but it’s too long to love or stay attached to something (or someone) who’s bad for you just to have that connection. Life is too short not to have that one last piece of the most amazing pizza ever, but it’s too long to have that pizza all day every day and expect it to be as awesome as it was the first time.
The seventy-odd years we spend on this mortal coil are the most solid, concrete, ephemeral things in the universe. We are dandelion fluff, there and gone in a blink. But we were there.
dandelion via pixabay