09/03/2087
Dear Diary,
I don’t know if people still write in diaries anymore. From the books that grandma brought with her back from Earth, it seems like people used to. I’ve never really understood the concept of a diary, ironically. What do people hope to achieve? A cleansing sense of catharsis? An archive of personal growth? A latent hope that someday, someone might pick it up, and publish it for the entire world to read, sealing your legacy and extending your life, hammered into the history books of future generations long after you’re gone, establishing your metaphorical immortality?
I can’t relate to the latter - where I come from, people literally can’t die. We grow up until we’re about 250 moons, and are frozen at our peak. But I know that they used to - back before we immigrated from Earth, I was far too young to remember that time. My grandma tells me stories about life back in the old world all the time. And from how she describes it - it sounds absolutely marvelous. She remembers huge, magic boxes with wheels, that had little chairs inside that could take you wherever you wanted to go. Bright, glowing balls of sun that lined the streets at night, so you never had to be scared walking alone. And where the leaves change colors on their own, like the world knew to put on a different fashion show every few months, lest its inhabitants got bored. Grandma spoke of the old world tenderly, but with a deep grief that never truly left her eyes. Sure, Earth was full of war and hatred, dirty politics and power-play and later on, mass poverty and death as the climate crisis got the better of it. But it was mostly wonderful, and Grandma held dearly onto that version of Earth, I can tell when she’s thinking about it because the corners of her mouth would curl upwards ever so slightly.
According to Grandma, there were many things to love about the old world. Beautiful flowers that sprung up along concrete sidewalks, malls that were filled to the brim with the most dazzling of outfits, layers and layers of Earth history to devour in museums. The only catch is - nobody gets to have these things forever. Humans live with the latent knowledge that they will one day die, not ever knowing when. And yet, they still choose to live each day assuming that there will be a tomorrow. They plan ahead to the next week, month, and year, never knowing when their lifeline might be severed. My grandma says that it was anxiety-inducing at times, but I don’t quite believe it. I think mortality forces you to drink in the pleasures of life more deeply, makes the wonders of the world all the more sweet, and oh so delicious for your heart to consume. But then again, how will I ever know? I’d never have to deal with imminent death, so the idea of it is more pleasant to think about from afar.
Actually, I think it might be somewhat freeing to not know when you will die, wouldn’t it? Because then a good life need not be defined by a checklist of good works you have accomplished, how much of an influence you had on other people, or how memorable your legacy is. A good life is simply lived, loving the people around you for as much as you can, and enjoying as much of the world that is given. No matter how long you have, where you’re born or what might happen.
And isn’t that the most wonderful thing that can be asked of a human?
Violet