I just found out a friend from high school passed away. He was lovely. In fact, I probably (definitely) had a crush on him at one point or another. He had a gorgeous smile and was friendly in a way that could disarm any human. He was the kind of human who managed to be laid back and ambitious at the same time. He did so many cool things with his short life.
It hurts. Death hurts all of us. It hurts when anyone leaves, but there's a specific kind of pain you feel for someone who could have lived fifty more years. Maybe it hurts because it resonates more; I am almost thirty years old, and if he died, I could certainly die.
I have been running myself into the ground lately. I want to be SO MANY things. I'm trying to be a teacher while pursuing improv and writing on the side. I'm also doing a few odd jobs to make extra money to pay off debt (one may or may not be Uber). I'm trying to stay fit and get sleep and eat clean. In the sprint to discover what I "should" be doing with my life and trying to "balance" my life by checking things off a list, I'm SO exhausted.
Fitter. Happier. More productive. (Thanks Radiohead, your song is going to haunt me forever)
On one hand, I want to say that the death of a thirty-year-old friend should "put things into perspective," making me step back and evaluate my life. It should make me want to chill out and slow down. Give some of my ambition. Life is short. Live, laugh, love.
I think it actually makes more determined. It makes me think of Jack Kerouac in On the Road:
"the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars."
I think that this year might be the one where I find out just how much of a roman candle I am.