Don't Survive.

    “How are you doing today?”

    This guy is old.  Upright, but old, bald, arms like they barely have the strength to perform a friendly wave.  His pale head is covered in those death freckles.  Odd shaped grill marks left by bad generics and too many years in the sun.

    “Surviving,” was his answer.

    He didn’t say it in a pathetic way.  There was no pity party going on.  It was a statement of gruesome fact.  He was surviving.  By what margin?  I’d guess a very slim one.

    “Surviving.”  

    Some people might be drawn to tearful compassion from witnessing this.  A poor old man, with paper for skin, fighting through some conglomeration of ailments that seek out old folks like wolves picking out the weakest of the heard.  It didn’t make me sad.  It confused me.  Then it made me angry.

    Too many people are surviving.  Always doing just enough to stay afloat.  Staying right in the center of their sinking ship as not to cause any premature splashes.  They’re waiting for the work week to be up.  Then they’re waiting for summer.  Then they’re waiting for vacation.  Waiting for retirement.  And ultimately, waiting for the reaper to come and close the curtains.

    This bothers me.  Not being old and answering “how are you doing today?” with “surviving.”  Not cancer spots and fading memories.  The waiting is the torturous part.  What are you surviving for?  

    There appeared to be no great achievements in this old man’s future.  When you’re surviving, even valiantly, willing yourself from the clutches of death each morning.  Crawling out of bed and aching your way through life.  Surviving.  Solely for the purpose of x-ing out another day on the calendar. What’s the fun in that?  

    I never want to be “surviving.” I prefer hell and high water.  Swimming for my life.  Moving forward, toward something, anything.  A goal for today.  A goal for a year from now.  Using whatever energy I can muster for something, regardless of how silly and pointless it may be.  But not surviving.  It sounds so agonizingly static.  Treading water with no intention of ever gaining any ground.  Bring the storm.  Bring the rogue wave and finish me off at that point.  Why do people insist on dragging it out?

    When you’re done living.  Be done with conviction.  It’s like people run out of steam in the forth quarter.  Or way before that for a lot of people.  They’ve used up their vitality on work or raising children.  They’ve done whatever good they’re going to do and then all they have is residual momentum.  They're at the mercy of whatever wake they created.  Letting the last few frames of the film play out with nothing new in the lens.

    They’re no longer producing, but that’s not what bothers me.  It bothers me that they’ve lost the desire.  Somewhere along the line, they’ve become complacent with missed opportunities and fading dreams.  Either through failing bodies or empty reserve tanks, they loseit.

    It might be an important part of the spectrum.  The ending.  Where selfish desires can no longer be sustained.  Maybe there’s something beneficial in being too old to accomplish anything of personal importance.  It becomes a game of watching grandchildren jump into the pool.  It’s all stories of the past.  You could call these the years of wisdom.  Valuable time needed for reflection and the passing on of knowledge.  

    Even if there is something to that final stage — miss me wit that shit.   It stinks too strongly of cowardice.  I’m not saying the “surviving” old man is a coward.  Maybe he’s got big plans in the works for tomorrow morning when the tides change.  Maybe he’s building a two story bird house in his garage right now.  I don’t give a fuck if he’s sitting behind a newspaper filling out the crossword puzzle.  As long as he’s not merely surviving.

    From the looks of it, survival is no longer a privilege for the fittest.  Survival is the lowest rung on the ladder of consciousness.  Living is about much more than surviving.  You don’t have to be in the prime of your existence, or privileged, or in perfect health.  You don’t even have to climb the ladder.  Kick your feet.  Shout.  Sing.  Let fucking go if you want to.  As long as you’re doing something other than “surviving.”