These words float through my subconscious as I go about my everyday life.
A yellow cab comes dangerously close to my right hip as I jaywalk across the street.
Nothing has stopped me yet, so nothing ever will.
I say yes when a boy four times my weight and twice my size asks me to get dinner with him after dark, alone.
The average lifespan is 80 years.
I hop in the back of an Uber as a complete stranger [hopefully] drives me to my intended destination.
I’m too young to die.
That’s my logic as I go through life. I didn’t realize it until I really watched the news, saw that kids my age are falling like pawns off a chess board. Young black boys murdered at the hands of the police. Little girls being kidnapped and held captive for years, some living to see themselves through the horror that was their reality, others not being so fortunate. Young people caught up in deadly wars that are not theirs to fight, and yet they fight anyway.
I feel invincible because I have been protected from the cruelest parts of the world. But people my age are dying. Young ones who barely realize who they are and who they want to be. Death isn’t just a far off philosophical question to be posed relentlessly with no definitive answer for them. They’ve lived long enough to realize:
God doesn’t care about age when he reaches down to earth with his quietus left hand.