I don’t know where to start. Today my eyes were heavy and constantly blurred by an unexpected tear. Although fever isn’t present, my body has been contaminated by walking pneumonia. I have the lungs of a fifty year old. The future suddenly looks dim. I have spent the last two days contemplating the importance of my life. Not in a universal sense, but rather the importance of my life to myself. I don’t want to die, that is, I’m not suicidal, but I can’t help but consider the peacefulness of death. I believe in the afterlife and in heaven and hell, but I don’t want to believe for the wrong reason. The thought of death being the final end, no spirit to free, no eternal life, just nothingness. This scares me to death. I want to believe because of my faith. Because of my complete and total devotion to religion and to the Almighty God. Not because of fear. In the midst of my thoughts of pre-determined endings, everyday responsibilities become unimportant and trivial. If youth is nothing more than a shadow of death, what is stopping me from dancing like a madman on the edge of a snowcapped mountain?
November 17, 1998