Memoirs of a Dying Man

I am 80 years old, about to face the Final Curtain. My life is the epitome of success which, in my society, is reflected in financial wealth. Fifteen cars are stuffed in my garage, and five chandeliers hang from the ceilings of four of the thirteen rooms in my Mansion. The worries of managing a successful multinational company for decades and the reluctant acceptance of my approaching death are revealed by disturbingly visible stress lines on my otherwise flawless face.  I have no living blood relatives. No wife and no children. I have loyal business associates, but no friends. I have a house, but not a home.

I am 60 years old and disillusioned. The absurdity of my existence, although always apparent, suddenly strikes me. My straining eyes have made reading a chore. Unable to learn, I am frequently thrown into fits of rage. A dull emptiness blunts my appreciation of the world, as pleasure eludes my searching mind. The restlessness of my youth has returned and isolation has become my closest companion. I take heart medications with a tinge of regret. Contrary to my previous beliefs, technology never provided a means to transcend death. All my hard work. Wasted. But music is still my escape. The acoustic guitars from the twentieth century sustain me.

I am 30 years old, and life couldn’t be better.  A disagreement with my partners preceded the failure of our first company. But that was expected. They only thought of profits, I thought of transcending the human condition. I dreamt of a time without distinctions. A time when art would become science and emotions reason, but they did not understand. Then again, I have always felt misunderstood. Like a stranger: an outsider watching the world without being a part of it. But that is going to change. No longer will I be a slave to society’s standards.

I am 23 years old and without regret.  Youthful optimism beams through my personality. I am ambitious, eager to leave a mark. The world’s information is increasing exponentially. I fear the younger generation would make me obsolete. Maybe that’s my ego speaking. But I do not want to be forgotten, although that’s beyond my control. The theoretical musings of my teenage years have blossomed into an urgent practicality, a need to get things done.  Selfish Ambition. That’s what my mother called it. She says I don’t spend enough time keeping up with events at home. But that doesn’t matter. Home is where the heart is.

I am 18 years old, and free.  A youthful mind, uncluttered by the life experiences from which wisdom blossoms. Born into an age of technology, teenage optimism, risk, and lessons only learnt from experience. A Modern Renaissance. Conventions have become what we choose and the wind of change occasionally makes me dizzy. Self-awareness is my support. Information, interests, and discoveries pull me in different directions. My life has become spells of dedication alternating with periods of confusion, and now, more than ever, I feel the need for retreat. An area without the external pressures of the world. An area where freedom is a way of life, liberated from the confines of language.

Knowing the corpses buried deep in graves were once as young and active as I am is overwhelming. Looking around, the impermanent nature of existence stimulates strong feelings of restlessness within me. My short time on earth has taught me to look within. To search and strive, not for happiness, but for contentment – an intense appreciation of the world and everything in it. This is neither an end nor a state. It is to live each moment like my last while contemplating possible consequences of my decisions. It is a way of life characterized by reflection and introspection. It is my way of life.