I watched an episode of CSI last night. The Miami version with Horatio (who is Cat's hero). The plot involved a woman who was poisoned with a radioactive isotope in her orange juice and suddenly found she only had five days to live.
It made me think. If I was told I had five days what would I do? The short answer, after an all to brief panic attack, would be record an album... A month to live? The same, but abroad in the sun. A year to live? The same... Etc.
It made me realise music is what I want to 'do', to leave behind. Maybe some poetry too, and possibly a novel if I get lucky. I don't want to shuffle of this planet leaving nothing behind except a bitter ghost, moanng at having been 'a good boy', up to date with mortgage and taxes.
Then I realised I am finite. Each day that rolls by with nothing accomplished except a few invoicable hours is a FUCKING WASTE. Each of these days is sand that will never run though the glass again.
I know all this, yet why am I seemingly incapable of doing anything about it?
A cheery point to ponder.
No comments:
Post a Comment