This Brief and Fleeting Moment
R&B floats through my headphones and I flinch at the static stinging my ears, folding laundry on a borrowed bed halfway between homes. I should know better by now, but there is something about the ritual of laundry and the putting into place of things that ties me down even in the midst of this transition.
I lately had a conversation about death and the brevity of life. It’s something I think about often. As a human I am daily moving towards my mortal end and that spurs me onward and upward towards what is to come. The reality of death has always made me live with more intensity, not cower in the shadow of its inevitability. But this talk reminded me that for some the thought of the end is a true paralytic. It also showed me that I do not have the right words to shed a light in those dark spaces and minister to those fears. I have fought off depression and anxiety in their turn, but that which haunts me wears a different face.
To pass through the veil forgotten, without having made an impact. This dread mocks me on late nights solitary before illuminated screens wishing for fictional greatness.
But what of the end? What of the time spent before we reach it? If only the distractions would cease so we could hasten towards our destiny before each story’s close.