One of the hardest parts of addressing my mortality has been the urge to justify my existence. A strong pull towards justification has preoccupied me these past weeks. I think constantly about how an outsider would judge me, my choices, my actions. I wonder if I have lived well enough. I rack up every accomplishment I can think of on a list of reasons why I should be spared from death, reasons I deserve just a little more time.
I also think of every misfortune I have already survived and wonder how it could ever balance out fairly before I die. What amount of joy is enough to say I have lived a good life? How much love do I deserve? How many bouts of laughter am I worthy of? How much time do I have left? Is it enough time to justify contemplating death? Am I moving through life fast enough or too fast? Will I get another chance tomorrow?
I have spent days now lost in thought, putting myself on trial.
I don't know what would be enough. I don't know if I will ever feel satiated with life. I feel angry, blood hot with rage at the idea that my life might be defined by years of needless suffering in an indifferent world. Every time I start to feel rage at the causes of my sorrows, though, I find myself cooling off quickly with somber thoughts of those whose miseries are more burdensome than I can imagine. What right do I have to outrage? There are worse circumstances than mine all over the world, and those who have already run out of chances to see another sunrise and sunset. So, I steel myself and hope that I have done enough and accept what I cannot change. Struggling against the tides of time will only exhaust me, so I might as well live each day as peacefully as I can and save my strength. I'll hug my family and friends a little closer.