Is life too short?

At least 3 times a week (and sometimes as much as 3 times a day, but never really 5 times a day, though who’s recording it aside from the NSA but I don’t even know how to get in touch with them to ascertain this piece of info), I breathe the famous “life is short.” Often accompanied by a sigh of a hundred years of hardship, I utter with solemnity “life is short.” To be sure it is heard (because a falling tree in a forest is you know…), I turn to the person closest to me and I express the brevity that is life, “life is short, Sam, life is too short.”

Now that I have the time to ponder this much-frequented phrase, I’m beginning to question its validity. Is life indeed too short or has it become one of those things people say out of habit, like “I love you” or “These pretzels are making me thirsty.” What if life is too long? The average life expectancy of an American, in 2011, was 78.64 years (source). (That’s 1.36 years less than what I had expected but those pretzels will do that to you.)

There are people who dream relentlessly, but for one reason or another, never get to implementation. To them, life is too short. If I had more time. If for A, I would have done B. If only.

There are people who, for one reason or another, live the life they are told. They don’t question, they don’t fantasize. They are practical and realistic. Life is a routine; they live life as if rehearsing for some play at life’s end. To them, life is too long.

Life is too short

[image from IMGUR)

A Poem About Phlegm.


Cognitive Dissonance

A grain of hope and a drop of will;
In this void, a thousand distractions fill.
Three dimensions, they push and pull.
The heart never as glee and full
As when in mind the dream once dwelled.
Of hope and will, the heart once swelled.
In three dimensions, they pulled and pushed
Till the dream and all hope were hushed.
To live for self or to live for them
The thought that clogs the mind with phlegm.
And to think in Mucinex freedom lies.
Must expel the phlegm ‘fore the dream dies.

Lesson from Watermelon

I recall that day as vividly as I recall the color of my skin tone. It was a Saturday, much like any other Saturday. But it was a Saturday, too, unlike any other. Below chronicles the events of that morning which I will not soon forget because it is published here:


Got craving for watermelon. Do I want it or do I need it? I need it. Made it a mission to acquire watermelon before end of day.


United with brother. Bonded over similar craving. We will go grocery shopping at HMart (Asian supermarket).


Arrived at HMart. Spotted mountain of luminescent green, perfectly-shaped watermelons. Victory dance! In my head, that is. Don’t want people to think I’m weird now. $11.99 each. Ran number against mental database of historical prices of watermelon. Too high. What, brother? We have to go to the fruit market anyway?


Arrived at local fruit market. Focused, scanned store for large, green melons. Spotted. Walked briskly over to pile of watermelons in corner. $12.99. Preposterous! This is robbery! No worries, Shoprite is right next door.


Entered Shoprite. Couldn’t find these exotic fruits. Delusional by now, circled the fruit section 3.5 times. Finally spotted them. Half the size of the ones at HMart with a price tag of $10.99. Universe, what game are you playing?

No choice but to lug that baby home, knowing it was the biggest mistake of my morning.

I learned an important life lesson that day. I learned that in the search for a better, you may lose out on the best.

Stats, stat.

Stats, stat_Comic2