Pursuit Of Life

Death is always stalking, a quiet certainty whose arrival is unknown. This unknowing gives life a deceptive boundless well from which we draw carelessly, assuming its endlessness. But life is finite, a series of moments counted in small numbers. We live as if it all stretches on forever, neglecting to savor each detail. We say, “Tomorrow,” yet know within that each day is irreplaceable, final.

The sky has always felt strange, a solid expanse guarding us from the void beyond—darkness, absolute night. Sunset is a mournful hour; watching a day end feels like watching the close of an era. It could signal the end of everything. That’s why I hate cold lands and cherish the warm ones, where winter is absent, and night invites life rather than stifling it.

Under this sky, we are fragile. Behind it lies an infinite universe, and we are minuscule. The soul, weary, craves protection. A sound body and mind are its shield. Illness strips us bare, reducing us to our most basic state: a vessel where chemical processes persist. The tyranny of the involuntary—meaningless, relentless.

We walk through life with this duality, the awareness of our fragility paired with an insistent hope. It is in the small moments—the taste of salt on the ocean breeze, the soft rustle of leaves underfoot—that we find beauty. These fleeting experiences are the fruits that plenish our soul, each day a story in the book of our existence. It is this very fragility that gives life its poignancy. The knowledge of an end sharpens our appreciation of the present. We are compelled to hold close what we can, to carve memories deep within, to live with a fervor that defies the darkness beyond the sky. In this way, we find our meaning, our place in the world, even as the universe stretches infinitely above us.