Mark but this flea, and mark in this, How little that which thou deniest me is; It sucked me first, and now sucks thee, And in this flea our two bloods mingled be; Thou know'st that this cannot be said A sin, nor shame, nor loss of maidenhead, Yet this enjoys before it woo, And pampered swells with one blood made of two, And this, alas, is more than we would do.
Oh stay, three lives in one flea spare, Where we almost, nay more than married are. This flea is you and I, and this Our marriage bed, and marriage temple is; Though parents grudge, and you, w'are met, And cloistered in these living walls of jet. Though use make you apt to kill me, Let not to that, self-murder added be, And sacrilege, three sins in killing three.
Cruel and sudden, hast thou since Purpled thy nail, in blood of innocence? Wherein could this flea guilty be, Except in that drop which it sucked from thee? Yet thou triumph'st and say that thou Find'st not thy self, nor me the weaker now; "Tis true; then learn how false, fears be: Just so much honor, when thou yield'st to me, Will waste, as this flea's death took life from thee.
They in their cruel traps, and we in ours, Survey each other's rage, and pass the hours Commiserating each the other's woe, To mitigate his own pain's fiery glow. Man could but little proffer in exchange Save that his cages have a larger range. That lion with his lordly, untamed heart Has in some man his human counterpart, Some lofty soul in dreams and visions wrapped, But in the stifling flesh securely trapped. Guant eagle whose raw pinions stain the bars That prison you, so men cry for the stars! Some delve down like the mole far underground, (Their nature is to burrow, not to bound), Some, like the snake, with changeless slothful eye, Stir not, but sleep and smoulder where they lie. Who is most wretched, these caged ones, or we, Caught in a vastness beyond our sight to see?
What are your thoughts on the concept of living a very long life?
As long as I’m of sound mind and capable body, I’m fine with it, but not at any cost. I’d rather shuffle off this mortal coil than drag out the suffering of immobility and / or dementia.
I think Atul Gawande’s “Being Mortal” is good required reading. Among other things, he talks about the smoke and mirrors of our species’s increased lifespan. (i.e. increased lifespan, yes, but too often at the cost of diminished quality of life through those additional years.)
Do you spend more time thinking about the future or the past? Why?
I spend the most time trying to figure out how to live mostly in the present. The past is dead and the future is unknowable, so I might as well settle into this moment.
