Death is random,
or so I’m told, by
those in the know.
It happens when we
least expect it and to
those that expect it
Life is also random,
or so I’ve been told
by numerous scientific
journals, TV science shows,
Neil DeGrasse Tyson, and
experience. It can also
Life and Death, just,
happen. For and to all
of us, mere chance.
The linchpin of the
lottery that is existence
and oblivion. Just chance.
My mother referred to it as,
“Kind of a Descartes thing.
We just are and then we are not.”
(You can see where I get this poetry
thing from, clearly). And she’s right,
It’s luck and chance we exist at all,
and luck and chance that we’ll cease.
It hammers home the true inexplicable
wonder of actually being alive in a time
and place that exists only in that time and
place. It’s amazing to have a voice, to have
movement, to think, create, laugh, cry,
hug, to feel the buzz of a lover’s kiss.
It’s special, it’s lucky, and it’s short.
That’s what makes this lucky chance, this space
between birth and death, so amazing,
so steadfastly delicate, so intricately
terrifying, so hilariously morose, so
unambiguously vague. It’s confusingly
simple and hugely small.
It’s all random, everything.
What we call purpose is merely
the luck of two individuals, lucky enough
to exist at all due the unlikelihood of the right
sperm getting the right egg, meeting and
being lucky enough to enjoy each other for
a lucky few moments in the lucky corner of
our lucky solar system.
We all are.
One day we will be a, “was”.
And we’ll be remembered for
how lucky we had been and how
lucky others were to have been a
part of our lucky story, in that
space between life and death.