Life

This is old, but I thought I'd post it.

In my time I have come to find that to live does not simply mean to breathe, to feel, to have a pulse.
I have felt my blood flow in great haste, my heart beat with unrivaled intensity.
And yet even in such times, I have found myself feeling dead.

That is not to say that I have never felt alive.
I have had my share of highs and lows, periods of heightened senses.
I have embraced the ecstasies of cloud nine, only to come crashing down to ground zero.
I have had fits of passion, sought to leave my imprint on the world.
One that is everlasting; not fleeting, but eternal.

Like an etching into a stone wall, a carving into a mountainside,
Not footprints in the sand, doomed to be swallowed by the tide,
Nor tracks in the snow, soon to be covered up, soon to melt away, or soon to blend in with the tracks others have left behind. Sometimes it can be difficult to find which tracks are your own.

And they say that life is like laying the tracks down in front of a train moving at high speed.
But maybe it is best to stop laying the tracks down.
Yes, yes, that is the truth of it.
I say life only begins when the train has veered off course.
Life can start once you stop trying to live.

The river's current is unpredictable, and yet the river endlessly flows as one.
It is both its beginning and its destination all at once,
Much like my life is already all it will ever be.
One must simply let life live itself.
Like a dog that knows the way home,
My life already knows the path to take, Correcting its course even as I alter its directions.

It is the path of that hopeless grain of sand that was swept into the ocean.
It is hidden beneath the surface and yet constantly in motion.
It cannot see what lies above, it has no view of the horizon.
But I have faith that it will get there.

So when does it all end?
When does this Life stop?
When do I die?

I have felt dead before, perhaps I already have died.
My cells have grown, multiplied, but then withered and died themselves.
This cycle has repeated itself.
I have shed my skin many times over, and yet I have maintained identity.
Like a tree that casts off its leaves as the chill of winter sets in, only to return to life as springs sends its whispers through the forest.

And so I have not died, nor will I ever.

In my future I see no permanent peace in heaven, nor damnation in hell.
I do not know what I will see.
As of now I expect to see nothing or not see at all.
Such answers cannot be found, so I have stopped asking the question.

Still, I know I shall obtain my little slice of immortality.
When my pulse ceases, when I flatline, when I "die," I know that whether I am conscious of it or unaware,

I will still be living.