will

by John Doe 25 Replies latest jw friends

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  John Doe

  your last breath be different from your first? Your heart, beating so many years, flutter under the monotony of living, and cease playing? Or will it be as a light switch, one moment on, and the next minute rotting? This small blip of time that is yours between an infinite future and an infinite past, what will it be? Will you write your name in the skies, or will you melt into the waves of the ocean, morphing your soul into oblivion?
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  beksbks

  John, have I told you lately that I love you?
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  John Doe
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  beksbks

  Do I have a choice?
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  John Doe

  Does anyone?
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  doofdaddy

  It's always amazed me that we start off tiny, bald, helpless, totally relying on our parents.
  
  Then after our life span, we return to this state except we rely on our children to care for us.
  
  So a healthy life seems to be a lesson in gaining independence and then on to reliance and trust. Maybe that trust will ease the exit to infinity?
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  beksbks

  Look at that John, you just got the other thread deleted You're leaving your mark on this world.
• 

  Big Tex

  Your heart, beating so many years, flutter under the monotony of living, and cease playing? Or will it be as a light switch, one moment on, and the next minute rotting? This small blip of time that is yours between an infinite future and an infinite past, what will it be? Will you write your name in the skies, or will you melt into the waves of the ocean, morphing your soul into oblivion?

  When I shuffle off, it is my fondest wish to be erased. No memory, just the absence which will be, hopefully, quickly forgotten.

  This is why I hope atheists are right. Better that than what Christians tell us.

  To sleep, perchance to dream: — ay, there's the rub;

  For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,

  When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,

  Must give us pause: there's the respect

  That makes calamity of so long life;

  For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,

  The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,

  The pangs of despis'd love, the law's delay,

  The insolence of office, and the spurns

  That patient merit of the unworthy takes,

  When he himself might his quietus make

  With a bare bodkin? who would these fardels bear,

  To grunt and sweat under a weary life,

  But that the dread of something after death, —

  The undiscover'd country, from whose bourn

  No traveller returns, — puzzles the will,

  And makes us rather bear those ills we have

  Than fly to others that we know naught of?

  Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;

  And thus the native hue of resolution

  Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought;

  And enterprises of great pith and moment,

  With this regard, their currents turn awry,

  And lose the name of action.

  Hamlet, Act III, scene i
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  John Doe

  Ah, I could have guessed someone would quote Hamlet. ;-)
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  Big Tex

  Sorry, it was too easy. Couldn't help meself.