Why, When We Die

First plate from Rethel's "Yet Another Dance of Death." - Rethel, Alfred 1816-1859; via Old Book Illustrations (2007-2026)

Everything is a distraction.

Anything anyone does is to waste time before the end.

We help the sick;

Go to space;

Create intelligence from rock dust;

Create unfair games and kill each other

To change them century after century.

Why, when we die?

I brush my teeth;

Work out;

Fall in love;

Carry coins in my pocket;

Sit at a desk and tell myself things need to be done;

Sit at a desk and tell myself I could walk away anytime,

That you are only as free as you let yourself be.

But why does it even matter which side of the glass I stare through.

Why, when we die?

The credits on a film;

The footnotes in a thesis;

The maker’s mark;

A copyright;

All things we do to preserve who was there.

Signs that say, “I was here.

I was here and alive and I did something

And here it is for you to see.

See my work, read my words, hear my voice,

Look at my name on the building 

And remember that I existed,

And I spent my time preoccupied.”

Why? For when we die.

I look around my room.

I see clothes, furniture, pipes on the wall.

Walls built by people with time.

People who also built a city over time,

Time that they would never get back

But who chose to do as they did

Just in time to give me space to wonder why,

When we die.

If I wait for my next preoccupation,

And base my future on what distractions are due,

If there is nothing permanent,

And every name is a soul waiting for freedom,

If I decide to stare at black glass,

And call that a life well-lived,

Then achievement will never come,

And I will never raise my voice,

And I will never realise myself in time,

And I will always wonder why, when I die.