Randomnessitude

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

the least.

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

be unexpected.

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.

Opportunistic circumstance.

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.