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Life seems so certain. So permanent. So here and yet everyday we learn that someone has died, had an accident or become terminally ill.

Somehow my own death is way way off in some unknown tomorrow and while I know in my head I too shall die, in my heart it’s not something I can touch.

I live my life as if there are endless tomorrows. Plenty of time to set the world on fire or at least do something more meaningful that remembering when the next X Factor is airing.

Plenty of time to meet to right my wrongs, to make amends to my friends who I’ve slighted. There is always time.

This must be the intrinsic part of ego that says, death? Won’t be happening to me.

Is this the ignorance that is the basis of our human suffering. That is like the coating of a stealth bomber that renders it virtually invisible?

What would my life become IF I believed to my core that this year would be my last?

Would I rise up and step proudly out to grab my dreams or use the knowing of a finite life, over too soon, to prove how really there is no tome left?

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