Don't Die Young

Eating plain yogurt, baby carrots, and whole grain pita bread, I sat on a park bench in Rittenhouse Square. I exhaled with a slanted smile when I remembered the divide in the middle of the bench that allows two people to occupy it without having to puff out one’s cheeks in a forced smile or to comment on allergies caused by the city’s bad air or mention the growing clouds that suggest that they will force people to eat at their desks tomorrow. To talk takes energy, and lunch is about obtaining energy.

I finished my food, leaned back, and then stretched out my feet. I took up Dostoevsky’s classic, Crime and Punishment, but before I dove into the mind of a crazed student about to smash the skulls of an old woman and her sister, I saw an old man sit on the bench across from me. He wore loose blue sacks, a pressed white and blue pinstriped shirt, and polished brown shoes. Looking nowhere, the man stared at the tip of his greasy nose with watery eyes lounging within grey eyelids. The corners of his lips stretched toward his jaw. A few hairs sprouted from a spotted bald head. I put down my book and fell into a dark daze.

I am afraid of death. I cling to life as desperate as black widow clings to her web. However, more to the point, I am afraid of dying young, insofar as sacrificing my life to something that has no meaning, like an office job in Corporate America.  Yet, despite this fear, I do not live much with the life I have. Why do I not? Society demands me to meet certain obligations, such as maintaining social relationships just because of some meaningless association like families, neighbors, or coworkers, or such as obtaining insignificant financial wealth. These demands drain me, so when I come home from work, I just want to recline on my couch and do nothing. As the weeks go on, I find new ways to force myself to live despite being tired, but the fact that one has to force his or her self to live because he or she are tired from a meaningless job is disturbing.

I do not want to die, but I cannot control that, but I can control dying while living. I intend this summer job as a glorified secretary to be my last purposeless endeavor. I do not want to be a tired old man sitting miserably on a bench reflecting on a life as corporate slave.

Knowing that one day I will lie on a bed waiting to die, I am motivated to make sure that in those moments, I will be able reflect on a life well lived. I do not want to be like Kurtz in Conrad’s, Heart of Darkness, and utter, “The horror,” with my last breath.