Finite

Anxiety stems from my finiteness, such definition, such absoluteness. I know that one day I will die. What I don’t know is how or when or why. What kills me even more is that those I love will be no more, torn away before I’m ready, so forlorn. Am I alone in this fear, these tears? Or do we all hold this inside, the bitter idea that we will die? Maybe it’s a natural human tendency; maybe we’re transcended endlessly, never capable of meeting expectations set by an infinite God; maybe we’ve been outdone by the one we laud. Or maybe we’re still holding our belief at arm’s length. If we believe when convenient, then I think we’re all in agreement, this way of life is not deviant. We place standards on ourselves to overcome, but we’re out to overcome the one we can’t even run from.