The one thing that comforts me about this place more than anything else - and I do not mean this in a bad way, for I will pass away relatively young - is that people pass away, people who you remember with extreme fondness and others who you remember in extreme animosity. But it is comforting to know when your time comes it wont be the first, it won't be the last and somebody somewhere might put something nice on your wall in absentee.
You know you are getting old when
- You do not have the intensity nor desire you once had.
- You choose to walk away instead of rising to the challenge.
- Your interest in everything is at an all time low.
- Your tolerance in everything except for alcohol is dead zero.
- You find the answer in drink:
You imagine yourself 2 seconds in to the other side, you walk up to the simmy, bang your fist down hard upon its table and declare 'WHAT IN THE NAME OF HELL WAS ALL THAT ABOUT??? AND DON'T EVEN THINK OF SENDING ME BACK IN JUST TO ANSWER YOUR QUESTIONS. I DON'T WORK FOR YOU ANYMORE - ETERNAL EQUILIBRIUM AND I DEMAND IT!!!
- You have the answer to the question: 'to be or not to be', - clever chap that Shakespeare, forget Newton, even forget Einstein, this guy was TRULY the most ahead of his day, he nailed it!
That's when you know you have qualified to leave, and join those who have already departed.
I hope they found their answers too - for the better or the worst...
To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep;
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, ‘tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish’d. To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there’s the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there’s the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law’s delay,
The insolence of office and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscover’d country from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.—Soft you now!
The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins remember’d.