Fear the Prospect, of Being Too Late

Part of the survival mechanism bestowed upon us by evolution is our ability to shut out death from our thoughts. By stifling active concepts of dying within the brain, we essentially live free from the vice-like recognition of our ever-impending doom.

We are dying, yet blissfully unaware of it.

From within this induced retardation emerges the sense of immortality. In short, we forget how fragile life is.

We live life without appreciation, without thought to the person next to us. We take things for granted because we assume it will always be there.

We rob, we steal, we lie.

We hurt others not because we're evil, but because there lingers the untruth of the presence of time to make things right.

We take people to be always there, stagnant, living, in limbo; Till death decides to make its mark, will we realise it's too late.

We'll never get to say the things we've wanted to say all along.

Make right the wrongs we've done.

See their faces.

Hear their voice.

Feel their touch.

Never. Ever.

And what remains will be the dusk of their days; regrets left to ponder, words left to stew, under the glare of ignorance and the heat of mortality.

We dig our own graves, graves of remorse, with each passing moment we don't say to someone, what we really want to say to them.

So, call up your love ones, your friends, your exes.

Tell them what they mean to you, and you to them.

For fear not the shame, nor the cost;

Fear not their sentiments, nor their replies.

Fear not the rejection, nor the ridicule.

Fear only the prospect,

of being too late.