Considering death.

I've been thinking about dying young. My American Literature anthology had little boigraphies at the beginning of each selection about the author. I swear that at least half of them died from complications of diabetes and several of them were in their forties or fifties. I've also read several accounts online of people who were doing all they could to control their diabetes but died unexpectantly in their mid-forties from heart attacks.

So on my birthday a couple weeks ago, I was wondering if I would die at 46. Since I was turning 23, that would mean that my life would be half-way over at this point. And that was really strange to consider...

The last 23 years seem to me to be a long time and so it doesn't seem like I would be all that young if I died at 46. That's a lot of years to read good books and experience quite a few happy moments. That would over 25 years of marriage with my lovely Paul. And let's speak of the hypothetical children that could possibly be born between now and then. Hopefully I could raise at least one child to adulthood in that time. It does seem depressing to leave them partway through growing up, though...

It is surreal to think about dying. It changes the perspective that you have on living- because it becomes obvious that dying is what happens at the end of living and there really is no separating the two. I am so afraid of wasting the span of life that I am given, however long or short it may be. I want to really live and savor my time on this planet! How sad otherwise.