One Year Less

So I'm a year closer to the shortest day of my life. Thirty two years ago I escaped from the black hole of non-existence - only to discover (the great cosmic joke) - that no one ever really escapes from it. Though we can't see it, it is there, and it holds us, even if some of us manage to stretch the spring of it further than others. Am I still at least heading away from my death, or is it already tugging me back? The singularity that will swallow me, will swallow the time of me along with the space of me, so that I will no longer have been as well as no longer be. I was death, am, and will be death again.

My Dad died when he was 32. So it goes.

I loved this article in which Woody Allen is interviewed about his latest film. Get this on the man:

...he really is amused, in a ghoulish way, by the suspension of disbelief that allows people to function in the face of their own mortality.

and this by the man:

Without any question I think life is tragic. There are oases of comedy within it. But, when the day is done and it's all over, the news is bad. We come to an unpleasant end...getting older has no redeeming quality. I haven't mellowed, I haven't gained any wisdom, it's a bad thing. You don't wanna get older, it has nothing going for it...There is nothing compensating about your own death.