Life. Or Something Like It.

So I’m trying to figure out two things:

Why I have this impending sense of doom. Why I have a morbid and depressing, yet intriguing, obsession with death and what comes after (and it’s not just because of my current involvement in a project by almost the same name). And why I kept hyperventilating in the art museum yesterday.

O, wait, that’s three things.

The hyperventilating bordered on an anxiety attack a couple of times. Go figure. It could have been because I was annoyed with the mister who was supposed to be spending quality time with me, but instead was spending a significant amount of time on his blackberry. So while he was doing that I spent some time studying the paintings and images in the Contemporary Gallery (my favorite of all the galleries, I think). I read about the artists ~ if they were still alive or when they died. And I stared at their signatures on their art. Some of these artists had been gone for many, many years. And yet their work and their name and their signatures live on.

I found myself wondering if my work would live on. If my name would live on.

And then I wondered why I cared. And what is it exactly I want to be remembered for? What am I hoping to contribute to society? What will be my legacy? And, why do I care? I'll be gone!

And why do I spend an inordinate amount of time feeling bad about myself? And then feeling bad that I spend so much time doing that because life is too fricking short to be doing that. It is one frustrating and draining endless circle.

Sheesh. No wonder I hyperventilate.