the disappearance of my youth

CHRISTIAN PAUL KUSCH 2015 ©

The terminally ill are at the end of their story. If you’re going to die anyway, what does it matter what you do? Take ecstasy. Go skydiving. Fuck a prostitute. Kills yourself. Who cares? There is a sense that, once you’re terminally ill and an official short-timer in life, what you do ceases to really matter[…] We are all terminally ill. Not one of us is going to survive. And our stories are delusions. Each one of us lives in The Matrix - a story-dream created by our minds. Happiness is not easy; meaning is illusive. Young, healthy people who find themselves miserable, or find that they no longer inhabit a story, have even more need of the kind of “palliative care” that we offer to terminally ill people, simply because young people have so much more time to get trough. Eighty years! Ninety years! A hundred years of epilogue ahead of us ? It’s crushingly boring to ponder.