There is a certain kind of death that I am deeply afraid of. It’s not a dangerous disease, though it carries it with it, nor is it a horrific accident, though the cause of it will in hindsight be accidental. It’s a kind of death I never want to endure before the end, nor want to become infected with as it is so easy to be.
I fear a death by stagnation.
Death is to be feared, but it is not so direct to fear never living your full life. Death is easy to cower from, but nobody recognizes their own blood-draining of their time on this earth.
One of the greatest supporters of my life, who I love very, very dearly told me today I should take a break. I nearly barked back that I couldn’t. The words held death in disguise, and although I saw the comfort and kindness that was being offered, I knew if I took it I would fall into a limbo of luxuries, a purgatory of pauses.
Rest and breaks are needed, I won’t deny that but I fear their excess, I fear a death by stagnation, where the cause of my murder is 80 years of wasted time. Time is all I have, and I best burn well.