Here’s the problem with an existence so human:
I am simultaneously tempted to believe that I never grow old, and that I never die.

At first the irony isn’t even so apparent, because at present the world exists to me as the pock marked pavement under my feet and so many degrees bristling the pigment of my cheeks. In my mind’s eye, I cannot see myself less vital, less able, less willing. It stems in part from my definition of the good life – an ever moving, never ending adventure of trial, fault, freedom and growth. Age, then, fundamentally defies my life.

On the other hand I imagine that my light can never be dimmed, that a life this full, a pen capable of these words cannot be halted or undone; that I live on and on and even with wear, I never fray.

In this way, death is not worse than age, but equal to an aging that cripples. Youth too can cripple, so death is nothing but a representative of all that robs of agency. Compared with an inadequate life, death seems an adequate rebuttal.

At once it is ironic and perfectly lucid – if life should fail me or let me fail to live, I imagine the answer to be death. A fault in logic so human, so preciously, pointedly flawed…

I am at once tempted to believe that my life never slows down, and reminded to run and run and run in case someday, my legs become tired.

Ashley Wylde
December 14th, 2014

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