Over dinner recently, my mom made a comment to the effect of: Life feels both long and short. I quickly chimed in with a I’ve been feeling the same way! She didn’t like that. You’re too young to feel like that, she said. But oh well, I can’t help what I feel.
Like many people privileged enough to “want to do something” with their lives, I’ve been thinking about the question of, er, what is the meaning of my life, a lot. These days, the answer vacillates between crystal clear and not clear at all. When it’s the former, I’m amped and ready to go. When it’s the latter, that’s when I tend to feel like life is short. It’s passing by too quickly. Then I think about why I’m alive at this particular point in time and, inevitably, I get to pondering why I won’t get to see what happens in, say, 2674. (#CosmicFOMO is the worst.)