It is bemusing the way people go through their lives as though they were going to live forever. It were as though they had no concept of death. Or rather, the notion of a permanent end to their existence were so elusive and abstract, it could not possibly hold true. And so they go on with their seemingly interminable lives, filling the bulk of their days scurrying to reply the plethora of electronic mail marked with the anxiety-inducing, red exclamation mark. The writing of letters to their beloved ones is then forgotten, or, left to one of the endless tomorrows that would patiently await them.

Our lives are so transient, fleeting. Yet, the flippant manner in which we spend our days appears to deride the validity of our very mortality. How often do we attempt to mollify the raging, second doubts in our hearts with the apparently reassuring promise of time? A year, a month, or a day. That is all it takes, ceteris paribus, to alleviate the sufferings of our status quo, to see improvements in an existing job that dulls our minds and drains our souls, or to eradicate the bitterness in a strained relationship.

How much time have we so lavishly squandered away in the false belief of some better future that almost always eludes us? Discontentment is a human condition, and should be cultivated as we continuously strive for betterment. If you find yourself at present being upset over the same things you were a week, month, or year ago, then perhaps serious change is in desperate order.

Normal day, let me be aware of the treasure you are. 
Let me learn from you, love you, bless you before you depart. 
Let me not pass you by in quest of some rare and perfect tomorrow. 
Let me hold you while I may, for it may not always be so. 
One day I shall dig my nails into the earth, 
or bury my face in the pillow, 
or stretch myself taut, 
or raise my hands to the sky and want, 
more than all the world, 
your return.

– Mary Jean Irion