Call me dramatic but whenever I’m sick, I make my
mental list of things I need to do before I die. I don’t have a will yet (not that
I have anything precious), but someone should be in charge of meagre possessions—my
books, my car and cycle, and my gadgets—when I’m off. Not to forget stashes
of clothes that I keep buying. So when my nose started bleeding today because
of some mysterious reason, it was time to churn those rational wheels and ask, "Have I done everything I
wanted to?"
Let’s see, I have travelled to two countries by
far, but London is still pending. I have written stories, lots of them, but that book I always wanted to write, that's unpenned. Learning another language, opening a book café, taking dance
lessons, making a sandcastle, going on a solo trip… there’s just so much I haven’t
done yet.
But the slate is not all blank: Bathing an elephant,
game viewing in South Africa, skiing in the Swiss Alps, meeting and
interviewing Irving Finkel, and listening to the stories of strangers in
foreign lands. That has to be something, I reckon.
And regrets?
Nothing that I can’t live with. Oh sure, I could
have done things differently a couple of times (or more), but there’s nothing I
am deeply remorseful about other than breaking my brother’s tooth as a child, but
what a kick that was!.
And then I get better—the nosebleed stops—and it’s
back to the business of living life instead of planning the sweet hereafter.
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