Something tiny

Everything passes by so swiftly, everything ends before you even realise it’s begun. That’s why I don’t get suicide. Suicide is impatience.
I know a few people, friends, who’ve died. Most sad, their deaths aside, was that they barely knew they were alive. I mean, they barely thought about it: this thing, existence.
So, is living a reckless pursuit? Should we think more about it, consider every option, enjoy every painful second? I’m not saying I have the answers, I’m just saying: think about it.
I know it’s scary - hell, it’s a massive thing, too big sometimes for a human mind to cope with, to massive to comprehend. Not just where we are, and why – mere specks in the shifting universe – but everything here and hereafter. Time, infinity, the breathlessness that awaits us all one day.
What next? Hmmm, have you thought about that?
Next time you feel something, think about it. Then maybe you won’t ever think like Vanessa, because every day I miss her. And every day she’s missing something. It maybe tiny, something she never even thought was special; but maybe all I had to do was make her realise how special that thing was. Maybe that would have been enough?
My friend Patrick was a valet at some swanky hotel. He was driving a great new car, an Aston Martin. And then he crashed it. He wasn’t even going that fast, they reckon, but he died all the same. He felt like James Bond driving that thing, so he rang up to tell me. He sounded so charged, so vital. It’s sick, really. The owner of the car was distraught; the Aston Martin was written off.
My Aunt Susan was a painter. Now she loved life, or at least she loved the opportunity life had given her. Not just to notice the tiny things around her – the flower growing through the concrete, the butterfly landing on a brown autumn leaf, the moon shining through the mist – but to love it, to suck it all in and feed off it, and to capture it and share the bounty with others.
Aunt Susan found she had a brain tumour. First it affected her hands, so she couldn’t hold a brush. Later she couldn’t see. And that’s cruel. It’s cruel to take away something so loved and so needed, you know?
Anyway, just remember that. For me. Okay?