When The World Ends

Fridays come and I spend them at work in an absolute daze, counting down hours and then minutes, in the most tough of days perhaps even seconds, til I can get out and start prettying myself up for a night out. Will I ever grow tired of this routine? Will I some day wake up, mildly hung over, look in a mirror, notice the first wrinkle gently carving its way into my skin and starting to form a fold around my mouth cause I smile too much, and think to myself, "I think tonight I'm going to stay in. Perhaps read the Architectural Digest, have a cup of chammomile tea, call it a night around 10pm."

For now, I dread the idea. I do not want to get older. I'd like to be immortal, live forever, though I know it doesn't makes any sense. If I just stop aging, everything else around me will still need to age, including the world itself. And on the last day of Earth, I wonder, will I still want to stay alive forever?

It's crazy, I know, to even think of these things. Maybe it's a quarter life crisis talking, though I thought I already had one at 20. I mean, I am happy. Happy with life, job, the guy, upcoming grad school, even my move to Cincinnati. But a part of me can't stop thinking about mortality. As I drive to work every morning and roll my windows down to feel the smog-filled but yet still pleasant morning air, I can't help but feel a hint of sadness, knowing that some day I will feel nothing at all.