Thoughts of mortality sting my heart by night. I lie in bed and stare into the darkness of my room. The problems of another day have passed, yet I remain troubled by the transitory nature of it all. We named it time and it destroyed us. As sure as your heart will fail you, this world will falter, be it by the hands of man or the hands of time. Billions before me, billions after, and every song ever sung will be forgotten in the vacuum of space and time will cease. I have watched my hands grow old. My hands were once smooth and strong; jagged scars and painful joints now remind me of my past and future. I am broken.
I wonder where my piece of cold earth waits. Have I walked among my kin? Have I passed by, oblivious? No, I do not enjoy this illusion. Death has been with me always: on the playground as a child, in my reflection as a teen, watching from the office as I work, and sitting beside me while I pray. As I frolicked and played, I suffered deep sorrow and regret. I have seen the future and it haunts me. Mankind haunts me. As a ten year old, playing in the school yard, I saw myself at age 20, 30, 50, and beyond. I witnessed my own death and stood among my mourners until they too had passed. The stained lining of my casket gave away, the ground reclaimed my tomb, and the world went black. And from above I felt the power of God.
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