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closer to death The unseasonable warmth wasn't enough of an incentive to keep me from sleeping most of the day away. I imagine that if I had more discipline I would have taken my bike out for a ride, but I didn't. Instead of going outside to enjoy the weather, I milled around online for a few hours and then slept the rest of the afternoon away. At least when I woke my body felt the best that it had in days, so I guess that I made the right decision. Odd thoughts have been going through my head lately. I keep thinking that at the ripe age of thirty I've probably lived at least a third of my life already and I'm not sure what I want to do with the final two-thirds of it. Or perhaps I've already lived half of it and that makes the future that much more grim. I suppose I should be getting married soon and locking myself into raising a family for the rest of my life, but I just don't want to do that yet. All of that sounds so unappealing. Nor can I picture myself being a family man. It isn't me. I think that my uncle died somewhere near the age of thirty, but I'm not sure. No, it has to be thirty, because I think that he was ten years older than my mom was when I was born. What I do know for certain is that he died earlier the same year that I was born. Now if I was more superstitious or mystical in nature I would think that there might be some kind of connection to the two of us. I mean the fact that he dies and then I'm born later the same year does kind of link us in an odd way. There were times when I was little that my grandparents would call me by his name, but I think that most grandparents get the names of the grandchildren mixed up every once in a while. I know very little about that uncle and he isn't mentioned at all during the holidays. Then again why should people mention the dead when they are trying to celebrate. From the point of view of my siblings and I, he never existed. Then there is my cousin who died in an auto accident when she was sixteen. I don't remember how old I was when she died, but I do remember my parents telling me that she had died. I must have been very young, because at the time sixteen seemed old to me. Now sixteen seems very young. The perspective has changed. The thought of dying young doesn't really frighten me that much. Despite those two early deaths, most of my family lives for a very long time. My grandfather, the father of the uncle who died at thirty, lived well into his eighties. Then on the other side of my family, a great grandfather lived into his nineties, so I think that I have genetics on my side in that department. In my reading I've abandoned Snow Crash and my future trek through Europe for something a little more light hearted. I had grown tired of reading about people who sit in rooms wearing a pair of goggles on their head and I needed a break from Europe. I wanted to read about people who did things and experienced life. I wanted to read about people who have genuine emotions, so T. Coraghessan Boyle came to my rescue with his collection of short stories, Without a Hero. I think that this will be the last entry that I use a Pink Floyd line for a title.
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