Life is transience, a mysteriously absurd gift from the empyrean.
Would it not be romantic to know your exact death-date? I want to feel a substantial feeling, stemming not from the reality that people are nicer to the dying, nor from being obese, but from an internal passion for life catalyzed by temporal scarcity. I want to commission a pendant from a master clocksmith fashioned to tick down the seconds (no winding needed) to my final obsolescence. So to say, it would be the sculpture of my lifetime. If I felt an impudent ticking against my chest, I think would be able to lead a fuller, braver life.
The likelihood is that my designer dreams will turn into nothing more than a joke. Recently, biological researchers have been quite the Scooby Doos, poking their investigative noses into the senescent lands of telomeres, genetics, oncology, and nanobiotechnology. How radical and liberating it is to think that aging is a disease like any other!
Would you be happy to transcend biology and live forever? Then, would you be sad to never be able to see heaven?
