Thursday, January 21, 2010
So I had the unfortunately all too common panic attack the other day that I will live well into my eighties. It started by thinking about my grandparents and thinking about all the good they have done in their lifetimes. Then of course I started imagining me at eighty. Alone in a room somewhere. I wouldn't be able to hear (cause I already have hearing problems), but that doesn't worry me so much because there would be nobody left to talk to me anyhow. I would probably talk to my dog, so at least I'd have company. What is it that you have to do to have people in your life that would care whether you're sitting alone in a room somewhere at eighty? I suppose that is why a lot of people have children, but I'm not willing to go that far. Seems excessive...like lighting a candle with a blow torch. Anyhow, point being...if nobody cares that I'm sitting alone in a room now, what hope do I have for when I'm eighty? I feel like I'm on the verge of discovering some great truth and yet I'm not smart enough to figure it out yet.