I think about my mortality often, probably more than I do about "life". This is not a morose preoccupation, however, and no Smiths records are played in the process. It's a simple and very straightforward thing that I am apparently more at peace with than a lot of people I've met.
I mention this because a few years ago, while playing with Wolfram Alpha, I did the math on how long I'd been alive, first in months, then days, then hours, followed by minutes and then in seconds. I filed away a few key details, because they were interesting to me, but not for any usable reason. It was a simple curiosity and record that clarified yet again how finite life is, how memory is deceptive and how perception about “lifetime” and “advantage” can be skewed in any given moment.
This evening, just a few hours ago, after factoring in the time difference between the US and India (where I was born), as well as a couple of other significant but small details that I had logged, I completed a full 400,000 hours since birth. To celebrate the occasion, I was treated to a fine cocktail at the very apropos Death & Company just a few blocks away.
The moment is about as important or as arbitrary as any other anniversary, a thing which serves no real purpose, but carries an incredible significance much like the stubborn flower growing out of a pavement, because often I imagine a cold and gentle tap on my shoulder, letting me know I should get things done before it's too late.
This week's piece is not related to my obsession with mortality, although one can always find some overlap. But it is about another obsession of mine, and I hope you can dig it.