DENYING MY DEATH

Denying My Age, Denying My Death

At eighty-seven, I am supposed to sit quietly in the waiting room of life. I am supposed to nod at the calendar, accept the narrowing horizon, and prepare to fade. But I refuse.

I have spent my years thinking, writing, and examining the human species, the universe, and my own improbable journey through it. And now, at an age when society expects resignation, I find myself denying not only my age but also my death.

A Life Without Before, A Life Without After

I did not exist before I was born, and that fact alone reshapes my view of existence. If there was no “me” before, and there will be no “me” after, then life itself becomes a kind of virtual event, a flicker of awareness in an endless sea of nonexistence.

And yet what a flicker it has been. I have had the almost inconceivable good fortune of a wife who defined my days, a life filled with thought and work, and a mind that has tried to wrestle truth from chaos.

I know that soon memory will fail and I will float back into nonexistence, carrying nothing of what I have seen or felt. But that does not make this moment less real. It makes it more precious.

Refusing to Die Before I Die

To deny my age is not to lie about my years. It is to reject the script that says old age is only a rehearsal for death. It is to insist that until the last breath, I remain alive, thinking, writing, questioning, recording what I can.

If existence is a spark in the dark, my duty is to let the spark burn as brightly as possible. Not to retreat into nostalgia. Not to shrink into silence. But to speak, to write, to bear witness.

The Unaccepted Voice

I have much to say that has not been welcomed or heard. Perhaps it is too stark, too direct, too uncomfortable. But I have come to believe that the value of speaking truth is not in its reception but in its utterance. Recording my thinking is not about applause; it is about leaving a trail, however faint,  for others to follow or ignore as they choose.

A Final Act of Defiance

So I deny my age. I deny my death. I know they are real; I know they are inevitable. But I will not let them claim my voice before they claim my body.

I did not exist before. I will not exist after. But in this brief, flickering middle, I can still think, write, question, and live. That is enough.

William James Spriggs