"There is a certain part of all of us that lives outside of time.
Perhaps we become aware of our age only at exceptional
moments and most of the time we are ageless." --
Milan Kundera, Immortality

I am currently rereading this book called Immortality. It's a wonderful book, one of my favorites. The book is difficult to describe on a linear, plot-driven sequence. It's a fascinating book exploring the concept of immortality. Much of what we do as people focuses around our desire to be immortal. We plant trees; we have children; we save financially; we try to take care of our physical selves; we feel guilty when we don't; we love the idea of creating memories with loved ones; we ignore each other; we hold on to arguments and fights far past reasonable expectation. We have fantasies of avoiding or bargaining with death. When we hear about someone being sick we lie to them that everything will be alright. We use aging creams, tanning salons (some of you), plastic surgery, adding and removing whatever it takes to bring us to immortality. We often avoid graveyards; we fear them for they are our destination. We crave the connection: we spread our legs wide, we push it in far, we hope to suck in and be sucked in . . . permanently. And why not? Perhaps there is still that tree, in the garden, long forgotten; that tree the gods had almost forgotten: let us banish mankind from this garden, in case they eat the fruit of immortality, because with the knowledge they have, they will be like us. You see? We have it partly right -- striving for immortality. Yet, like Eve and Adam, we are stuck on gorging ourselves, nakedly, with all that brings us shame. Our eyes are wide open, seeing everything clearly, increasing our knowledge, our fear, and hastening the river that brings us closer to death. And there stands, off in the distance, another tree with seemingly unnecessary fruit waiting with the silence of secrets. And once again, we've missed its whisper.

"And I thought about years...
how they take so long
and they go so fast."
Beth Nielsen Chapman, 'Years'