We drift through life like plastic bags in the wind, finding ourselves compelled on a course known to no-one but the
anonymous forces that
make each of us their toys. We think of last words, last thoughts and last
actions as if they should have some significance, some importance, as if they should frame our time of dying to perfectly fit with our lives, merely by virtue of their finality. We think of our dying moments as the final lines of a novella, lending closure to the story and perhaps summarising our lives. Rather our last moments are more like the camera shot on a rollercoaster, we do not know when they will come but it is that one instant that will forever epitomise the wild ride we have experienced, they are not subtle, expressive or artistic, they are tacky, unplanned and over-priced. It is perhaps the lucky few who finish
their lives doing or saying something significant. But this does not really
matter because death requires nothing significant but the absence of life. You
could live for a thousand years, build one hundred empires, save two million
lives, spawn fifty children and still the most important thing you will do in your life is die.
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