In high school, I remember reading TS Eliot's The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock and being struck by the sadness of the verse, "I have measured out my life with coffee spoons." As a teenager, I didn't understand it and I pitied the man who wrote this. However, as an adult, I can see that I, too, measure out my life in the same increments.
We all waste a good portion of our lives. Life sometimes seems like a long wait. The intervals between days marked by the mundane...cups of coffee...the brushing of teeth... shitting. Too few momentous things happen. Before we know it, the thing we've been waiting for happens and we die.
Should existence be enough?
I wonder what would happen if each of us felt that we had something great to accomplish in this life. Would we be as unhappy as we are now? Or even more unhappy because more of us would try and fail?
I think about the amount of time I spend doing wasteful things. In the time I've spent watching bullshit reality shows or twittering, I could've written a book or started an organization to save starving Panda Bears in Asia or some shit like that.
Why do I crawl ever slowly to my death instead of rallying against it by living life as though it were my own personal struggle for immortality?
Some people become immortals... the people that are remembered by subsequent generations--the giants of their time. Is it arrogant of me to wish that I could be among them?
It seems so hard to pull oneself out of the throng... to distinguish oneself from the crowd that wants merely to live. How can anyone be satisfied to die unremembered?