The lack of light, long before dawnbreak, sometimes brings stressful thoughts. Once, maybe in the break of a dream, I lay still in darkness while my mind prodded at the fact that I have occupied space in this particularly minuscule point of the planet in a spiral galaxy in an unfathomable universe. Not only space, but also lots of time. "Don't attend reunions," my mind said, "you will look old to your classmates."
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I imagined my classmates, all rich and healthy and young, wondering why I showed up at all, my skin all wrinkled, hair gone, a girl assisting me so I don't fall down. Jolted by the thought, I became fully awake and I realized that time has not stopped for them, either. A few of them are older than I, most younger by a year or two, and the rest as old if not as decrepit as I. I count four dead in our batch, one recently killed in a traffic mishap.
Twenty years ago, when I turned 40, death has ceased to be a stranger to me. In my newspaper years ine of our young reporters died when he dropped a bag he was carrying and the loaded gun inside discharged one soft-nosed bullet in his belly. A desk colleague, a renowned and feared columnist, was shot by a holdupman in the back of the head, the bullet exiting from his eye. It was on TV for a few days. Camera crews from different stations appered in our office, disturbing our news work from time to time. I even got a radio interview about the shooting of a colleague. A TV production on the life of Danny Hernandez, played by Joel de la Torre, was rushed through prime time within a week. I saw many discrepancies in the film's details and I shrugged. By that time I was innured to the constant inaccuracies of newspapers and TV programs. Everything is fiction, including details of your life and death. The only truth about death is you will not be seen above ground anymore. Your enemies will forget you; your friends will take a little longer. And time no longer counts, as far as you are concerned. Whether you were wealthy or just got along in life no longer matters.
While I still can compute, I'll prepare my facts for an imaginary reunion with former classmates who are in the vicinity of the six-decade mark. At your 60th birthday you have spent 365.25 x 60 = 21,195 days here. The number of your days, if converted to pesos, is equivalent to a cheap version of an iPhone. Not lack of money or surfeit of wealth will define your short stay on Earth. What then? I'm not intelligent, so I'll borrow from a movie, "The Bucket List," for an evaluation of life.
According to a segment of that film, two questions are asked of deceased Egyptians that will determine whether they enter heaven or not. First question, "Have you found joy in your life?" Sort of a bonus question wherein a yes or no does not detract from your chances of admission to the ancient Egyptian heaven. However, the second question seems to bring a waft of very hot air: "Has your life brought joy to others?" I believe there are more souls outside heaven than inside. I can see myself installing a 10 horsepower air conditioner in a small room in Hades, where I play poker with pedophilic archbishops, many politicians, and all televangelists, while sexy starlets sit on my laps as I add a wee bit to the temperature with my cigarette smoke. A consistent life above and below, how says the jury?
In its 5 billion years of existence, the Earth, 500 million years later, take a week or two, bacame so verdant and peaceful. Then, just 35,000 years ago, a fraction of a blink of the cosmic eye, the plague of modern humans arrived, so destructive, so inconsiderate, so lustful and greedy. And I belong to the species, devouring chopped pieces of chickens, pigs, cows, even rare tigers and lions whose lives are worth more than villages of brutal humanoids. For 60 years I have coasted along with our particular herd, trying not to spend my life in exchange for money, but for something tangible, something that will leave a mark here that says, "I was here (and pogi for life)." That takes a lot of talent: to write an excellent book, to sculpt a masterpiece, to paint a vision, to construct a breathtaking edifice, all to bring joy to others. Then they will remember you. By what you contribute to the others will you leave your mark, and become one of the immortals. And most of the immortals, whose names have outlived false gods of many nations, did not reach 60.
[Itutuloy]
