What are your thoughts on the concept of living a very long life?
Meditations on Longevity
Me
I am the sliver in the mirror,
the dust settling on the photograph of yesterday’s breath.
I am pulse, fleeting, yet stubborn in its rhythm.
Fingers gnarled from counting days like beads,
chewing the marrow of minutes.
In this body, time’s rough canvas,
I am both the paint and the void,
the scribble of a thousand hands.
Who am I to imagine forever,
when I can barely grasp the weight of now?
A contradiction incarnate,
longing for eternity while craving release.
I, the architect of my undoing,
building cathedrals from my own crumbling bones.
Life
Life is a riddle that mocks its own answer,
a snake swallowing its tail but never sated.
It laughs in green, cries in grey,
blooms only to rot beneath its own shadow.
Life is the dance of a drunk marionette,
pulling strings that tether to nothing.
It hums in silence,
a symphony conducted by chaos.
It is both seed and ash,
harvest and famine,
The hand that offers and the hand that snatches it back.
Life whispers, "Stay."
But what is staying,
when every step is a departure?
Thoughts
Thoughts are a tempest in a teacup,
infinite in their madness, finite in their reach.
They build cities of sand,
shouting monuments into the wind.
Each thought births another—
a child, a sibling, an enemy,
until the family tree
becomes an impenetrable forest.
Thoughts question:
What does it mean to live?
What does it mean to endure?
What does it mean to end?
They fracture reality into prisms,
their truths shifting with the angle of light.
But are thoughts the masters,
or the marionettes?
The Concept of Living
Living is the contract signed in invisible ink,
a promise made without understanding its terms.
It is the burden of choice,
to breathe, to ache, to stumble forward.
Living is the lie we tell ourselves
to bear the truth of dying.
It is a feast where every bite carries the taste of joy and sorrow intertwined,
where we gorge on the unknown,
only to hunger for more.
Living is the art of forgetting—
forgetting what hurts,
forgetting what fades,
forgetting that we too are borrowed time.
Yet living persists,
a relentless tide against a weary shore.
Long Life
Long life is the mirage of a horizon that never arrives,
a cup that overflows but never quenches.
It is the weight of too many yesterdays,
the anchor of knowing too much, too little.
To live long is to outlast the stories,
to become the ghost at the banquet.
Long life is a question without an answer,
a road that circles back upon itself.
What is long?
What is life?
Do they intertwine,
or merely coexist like strangers on a train?
Convergence
Me. Life. Thoughts. Living. Long Life.
They merge like rivers into a single ocean,
an endless churn of contradictions.
I am life’s thought,
living long in the shadow of myself.
The concept dissolves,
a question collapsing under its own weight.
If I am me,
and me is life,
and life is thought,
then what is long?
A trick of perception, a game of time.
The tapestry unravels.
Threads that once ran parallel now twist,
knots forming where questions meet.
To live a long life,
to breathe in its expanse,
is to accept the unraveling,
to dance in the spaces where meaning falters.
Perhaps there is no answer,
only the poetry of asking.
#PoetryOfLife #LongLifeReflections #PhilosophicalPoetry #ExperimentalWriting #MeaningOfLiving #CreativeExpression
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