I had a frightening, yet inevitable realization the other day and it all came to me in a rather seemingly insignificant way. While watching an old episode of the the live-action version of The Tick (conveniently streamed online, might I add), one of the idolized superheros played by special guest star Sam McMurray has a heart attack while, um, well…doing it. Don’t play coy, you know what I mean. His death is completely unexpected and, needless to say, very sudden. And then it hit me.
I am going to die one day. I don’t know how or when, but it is totally going to happen.
I know. I can be such a buzzkill sometimes.
The thing is that it’s not like I haven’t realized this before. But for some reason, on this particular Wednesday night at 12:39 a.m., I had this overwhelming feeling of utter doom. And sadness. And dread. And it was another few hours until I could fall asleep to the sound of emergency vehicle sirens on their way to life or death scenarios. This particular night, the familiar West Philly Lullaby seemed especially somber.
I often wonder if my fear of the inevitable lends itself to my procrastination. You know when most people kick the bucket, the first thing out of the mouths of the mourners is “He lived a good life. It seemed like he did everything he was supposed to do on this earth and his time most have been up.” I think somewhere deep down in my screwed up little psyche, I have convinced myself that ambition leads to action, action leads to accomplishment, accomplishment leads to completion, and somehow, completion leads to the death. And in subconsciously believing that systematic progression, I think that if I exist in this world like a puddle of stagnant water, I can ward off the big dirt nap for as long as possible. Don’t get married, don’t write that novel, don’t get that Masters in Printmaking, don’t go to Japan, don’t do anything that you ever wanted to do during your lifetime because then you’re just speeding up the process of dying — it’s become the holy grail of my kid-logic philosophy.
Of course this train of thought is completely delusional. Death doesn’t care about accomplishment, but perhaps I’ve developed these ideas as a coping mechanism. I’m sorry, but I’m just not down with the idea that I’m going to die. Furthermore, I’m not particularly cool with the people I love eventually dying too, goddammit. The one thing in my life I have absolutely no control over is the one thing I am literally scared to death about. Oh, the irony!
Why all of a sudden have I given this such serious thought? Maybe because I’m nearing 30. Maybe because I seem to live in a city where random violence is a not-so uncommon occurrence. Maybe because D* and I have talked about (gasp!) marriage and (double gasp!) the possibility of kids, and that whole she-bang which would definitely count as a major milestone in anyone’s lifetime.
But maybe it’s because of Andy, an old high school acquaintance of mine who was recently found dead of an overdose. This kid had every opportunity in the world and was sadly found with every drug imaginable in his body. He had no excuse – his parents were extremely well off. He was a Kennedy for Christ’s sake, which, in retrospect, might explain a lot. Though Andy’s parents offered to pay for any education he might want to take on, he had other plans. As my girlfriend recalled, she could remember him talking about how he wanted to find the ultimate high. I guess he found it. And the saddest thing of all is that his life never really began. His greatest accomplishment is that he turned out to be yet another sad, cliche After School Special.
I know. Super Yahtzee buzzkill.
So though I begrudgingly accept that I will die one day, it still hasn’t lit a fire under my lazy ass. I still sleep late, watch TV, and play solitaire on the computer. Sometimes I wish that something monumental would happen, something that would motivate me to use my time wisely. Then again, I’d rather just hit the snooze button.
