in line we stand. waiting for our time-off, for our kid to get old enough to move out, till our vacation days come, till time itself runs out. this anticipation for something, like constantly falling forward, is a reality for most of us. the idea that the best is yet to come, or if we simply obtain something or get someplace we will be able to kick back and truly enjoy the here and now.

what we really are waiting for is death. we don’t speak much about it, it is hushed or shunned in most conversations, but it is that final place we all end up. a constant, sleep like state where all the problems vanish. no more pain, nothing to finish, no meetings to attend and nothing to argue with. we leave the stage, abruptly for some, others not so much.

It is not that we are waiting for this with anticipation. most of us fight. when faced with a choice, like a game, even if we know we will lose we will keep playing.

Dylan Thomas in his poem wrote about this fight with strong conviction and passion:

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on that sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.