On Mortality
The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom.
— William Blake, The Marriage of Heaven and Hell
I was a self-destructive youth, driven in large part by a naive belief that I was practically invincible. Motorcycles, women, substances. I read nihilistic philosophy and idolized people like Jim Morrison. I wanted to experience everything to the fullest, rules and taboos be damned. The idea of being thirty was laughable.
Now here I am at forty, making old man noises when I stand up. I pay my bills on time and track my macros. I stand on the sidelines at my son’s games and make small talk with other parents. “It’s not the heat, it’s the humidity.”
From then to now, the blink of an eye.
Last night, we gathered at my in-laws’ to visit with family from out of state. It was the first time I’ve seen some of them in over a decade. One of them went from a nervous med student to a world-renowned neurologist. His father, a carefree divorcee, now struggles with Parkinson’s. Once-bright eyes now reflect the nearness of death.
I wonder if he feels the passage of time like I do. If it was just a dream, the path from youthful vigor to a painful end.
I think we go to great lengths to avoid thinking about this. Perhaps the destructiveness of youth is a sort of rebellion against that very realization, a screaming into the uncaring void. Ultimately pointless, but cathartic in the moment.
I’m certain I’ve done this many times before.
May this be the last time.
Namu Amida Butsu.