Or… Waiting for Noah to grow those d*mn trees
I’ve recently come to use the phrase “sleep when you die” when referring to going out on weeknights or to force myself to go out when I’m feeling lazy or tired. It’s hyperbole of course but you probably get the idea behind it. Go out and have fun while you’re alive and kicking, while you’re not too old to be irresponsible, while you don’t have spawn sucking the very life-force out of you, etc…
Most of the major decisions I’ve taken in my college and adult life, except for building my house, have been with the thought, “what stories will you tell your kids and grandchildren when you’re old.” It’s led me to some pretty fantastic and ridiculous experiences. And it’s probably shortened my lifespan.
When I was little, a part of me wanted to live to be 120 years old, just so that I could say I had lived in the 1900′s, 2000′s and 2100′s. Unless medical science improves drastically or the singularity occurs relatively soon, I now hope I never live to be 120 years old. I’m sure I’ll fight to live as long as I can but I don’t want to live long because I was afraid to die, to take risks. Life isn’t always 24/7 exciting but nor should it be dull and safe.
I don’t want the last years of my life to be spent in, “a cage. To stay behind bars until use and old age accept them and all chance of valor [or adventure] has gone beyond recall or desire.”
I’ve read stories about individuals living to the age of 100, 105, 110 years. How do they do it? They’re vice-free and, I would wager, largely experience-free. They’ve lived through some of the greatest times of human history and that’s a journey worth taking in and of itself. But what stories are they telling their grandchildren and great-grandchildren. What stories will be told of them?
Sleep when you die, indeed.