Grey Thoughts

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To My Future Self

So, I am 72 years old. Early this morning I had a chance to talk to my Future. It was one of those casual, chance encounters and my Future grabbed a chair and sat down before me. “You know,” it said, “at 72 you have certainly gathered a lot of memories and experiences. So, you probably wouldn’t be bothered too much if I told you that you only had 8 more years of your life. I mean, lots of people die long before even attaining YOUR age.” I was taken aback, slightly; for 72 years seemed like such a lot to have accumulated, and yet 8 years seemed so few to have left. “Well, is that set in stone?”, I asked. “Surely, I might have a few more to go?”

It suddenly seemed so silly to be bargaining with my future about a few years of life. I had watched as the news kept pace with all the people (at least the newsworthy ones) who had died recently and noticed their ages. I felt especially sad for the children who had died, hardly having lived at all; so few memories of life in their minds before leaving reality behind. I pondered if they were better off for not having to deal with the pain and suffering which life sometimes has, but realized they would never feel the joy of love for another or family or the simple collection of memories that would intricately construct their being and mark their presence on Earth.

Future could see my somber countenance and said, “I can see you are bothered by this news, and if it will make you feel any better, I will find a way to extend your life for 12 years instead of 8. Would that be better suited to your thinking?” I found myself buoyed momentarily by his offer, but with my acceptance of that reality, I became stunned. Twelve more Christmases… twelve more birthdays…twelve more years.

The years already pass by so quickly and I felt an icy chill run through me. So few years left to do all the things I had put off or neglected. So little time to still be a part of life. What could I do with those 12 years? What SHOULD I do with those years? I felt childishly stupid for feeling like this was some sort of revelation, that EVERYONE must have these thoughts, but then realized that most people lived their lives with thoughts of what they have and sometimes with thoughts of what they had, not with how much they had left.

Our lives are like checking accounts to which we don’t have access to the balance. We write checks to life with the minutes of our days and nights with the feeling that we will never be “overdrawn”. Some people write their checks constantly, filling their minutes and spending them freely while others seem to hoard the times of their days as if saving them would lengthen the amount of time they had to spend them. No matter how full or how empty our account activity is, there is no predicting when the next check we write will be marked “VOID”.

I thought back to my childhood, when life seemed an eternal gift, always waiting for me around the next corner, beckoning with its limitless opportunities and sensations. It was as though times’ only meaning was to order the events of my life as I hurried to grow up and grasp my perceived gems of life: becoming a teenager, getting a drivers’ license, going to college. I was in such a rush to grow up that I could not conceive sitting in a chair at 72 years old and looking back at the sum of hours that had now accumulated in my life.

I turned my gaze back to Future, still seated before me with a sort of Mona Lisa smile, and was about to inquire about insights into what was to come, when Future raised its palm towards me in a knowing way and said, “ I can only present to you what I see at the moment, the path you have carved through time still serves as a map by which I can “see” what will be, but there are often other’s futures which may intersect yours in ways even I cannot clearly interpret.”

I sat silently, thinking about the empty treasure box of my future that waited for such jewels that I might place within it, and saw the opportunities to fill its interior to the corners with such gems that were denied to those whose lives had passed before reaching my age.

How truly fortunate I am to be able to occasionally listen to the ticking of life’s clock, as I seek to make the contents of my box shine brightly when it is opened at the last strike.

By James Geehring

From: United States

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