Usually the knowledge that you will ultimately die — not now, not soon, rather at some distant, distant, please, very, very far off time, but still, ultimately — is comforting. Or, perhaps by congratulating yourself on your cleverness at deducing that it is death that raises life’s price and maybe even value by giving it scarcity you manage to distract yourself from what might otherwise terrorize you. Whatever. Either way, you accept, more or less, the birth-work-death cycle.
Except on days such as this. This, the day in question, being last Thursday I believe, when I stood at a window at work looking at the snow with a single thought in my mind: I could live forever on a day like this. The snow was perfect snowman/igloo-building snow. The sky was overcast but not dark; pleasantly but not blindingly/skin-carcinogenicly/cataract-causingly bright. Cold so it wasn’t melting but not cold-cold. Just under freezing.
In other words, a perfect day. I even thought of the song.
I could live forever. I suppose I did, in those couple minutes.
Then I went back to my desk and checked my referrer stats again.