Life expectancy has many facets. It’s a number. It’s a state of mind, of expectations, hopes and dreams. It’s what we expect in terms of lifestyle, career, family, geography – it’s the rule of the law, of our land, our community, our country, our ‘being’ something identifiable. It’s nationality, it’s ethnicity, it’s heritage, it’s friends, it’s our neighbourhood, it’s our colleagues, our leaders, our contemporaries and our competitors. It’s praise and ego. It’s humility and fragility. It’s hopes and dreams, joys and schemes – it’s demonstrated skills to solve problems and to get out of jams. It’s peanut butter too. It’s every creature comfort, luxury and treat we know or see or eat. It’s giving those experiences away too, family, friends and sometime – foes too.
But it ought to be more, right?
It ought to be opportunities pursued, high times and low times and figuring out those in-between times, it’s about joy, it’s about sorrow, it’s about being pumped, it’s about being flat – it’s about ticket stubs and boarding passes, it’s about the books we read, ones we never read as well as the ones we never wrote. It’s about life as an open book. Not one of those blank pages book, not a journal or diary, not fantasy and fiction intertwined but an autobiographical romance novel of love and life, of love of life and the loves of our life.
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