Epiphany.

It’s strange. I think the only time where I am motivated to get to finishing the half-baked scribbles behind café napkins and ideas scrawled between lines of class notes is if I’m reminded by how fast and fleeting life is. I woke up today, not for the first time in my life, absolutely terrified. I had dreamt that I was dying; before I had even begun to start doing the things I wanted to do in life, it was all going to end.

It isn’t unusual; I had always had this fear of my life ending before it began. One of my dearest friends had killed herself before she was sixteen, my grandma had recently passed, and I was even reading Looking for Alaska right before bed. So it isn’t unusual at all that I was plagued by thoughts and dreams of mortality. But I woke up and I decided that I want to write more, that I needed to write more. That I don’t want to just run out of time and not finish what I had decided was important all those years ago.

Had I had have any lick of talent with musical instruments, I would’ve went out to buy a white BIC lighter, carry it around in my pocket at all times and start to exclusively write with my left hand to join the greats. To ensure I left behind something, anything that was of significance. Of course it’d all be pointless if I didn’t die at 27, but what does it matter. It would be stupid and irrelevant, but it would be poignant. And it would be beautiful. And that would mean something.

I guess I just don’t want to leave with the knowledge that I haven’t done anything. But then again, don’t we all. I just feel like I need to start writing again. I have to. I simply cannot wait until I am out of time. And that is an epiphany if I ever had one.

“Francois Rabelais. He was a poet. And his last words were ‘I go to seek a Great Perhaps.’ That’s why I’m going. So I don’t have to wait until I die to start seeking a Great Perhaps.”
Looking for Alaska, John Green

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