I'm not dead yet

It’s January 1st, 2020, and I’m not dead yet.

That’s a lie. Or at least a partial lie. And eventually, it might be a total lie.

The part that’s a lie is this: it’s not January 1st. It’s January 2nd, 2020.

The part that’s not a lie is that I’m not dead yet. (But someday, this, too, will be a lie.)

So one Pinocchio, not two.

Things are not that simple.

What’s true one day could be false the next, and vice-versa.

Of all the days in the universe when you might be reading this, only one is January 2, 2020, and that day is fading fast.

So odds are the “Today is January 2nd, 2020” will be a lie by the time you read this. (Actually, I’m editing this, and it’s now March 2, 2021. So that’s certainly a lie.)

And even though I’m not dead yet—as I write this—-on most of the days when someone (maybe not you) will read this, I will be dead.

So the smart money says it’s not January 2nd, and I am dead.

But not right now.

I’m not dead yet.

“I’m not dead yet” is the name of a podcast that I’m thinking about producing.

The intro to the first episode was going to be: “It’s January 1st, and I’m not dead yet.” I thought that was engaging.

But I’m a procrastinator. I didn’t get around to writing this until—let’s call it ‘tomorrow.’ And then let’s call it “Quite a long time later.”

And who knows when—or if—I’m going to record it?

And who knows when—or if—I’m going to publish it?

The main point

The point is: I’m not dead yet. And if you’re reading this: I guarantee that you are not.

That gives us something worth celebrating.

I mean, we take it for granted, this business of not being dead.

Do you get up in the morning and say: “Wow! I’m not dead yet.”

Does anyone?

I think we should.

Being not dead—what experts call “alive”—is fantastic.

Look around you. So much of what you see is not alive.

And most of the little that is alive is not as alive as you are.

Not quite dead

Technically, no matter when you read this, I won’t be dead.

If you read it soon enough after I write this, I may be mostly alive. Or possibly mostly dead. And as Miracle Max says (and I quoted him here), “mostly dead is slightly alive.”

The words that I write are a part of me, and if you are reading them, they’ve lived on. So I have.

And since you’ve read them, they are now a part of you, and they’re living in you.

So I’m not dead, unless you’re dead, too.

What do you do when you’re not dead?

So we’re not dead.

Now, what are we going to do about it?

I know what I’m going to do. I’m going to finish writing this. And then I’m going to post it. And maybe I’ll record it and riff on it and put it somewhere for people—perhaps you—to find.

What are you going to do?

Nothing?

Well, that’s cool if that’s your decision, but let me tell you—you’re wasting something precious, which is your life.

Think about what it took to get you here.

Think of the potential that you have—to do something, anything, that lives on after you.

Seriously. You’re not dead yet, so why not do something?

Well, you might ask: “What’s worth doing?” And I have an answer: “Just about anything, as long as it doesn’t die when your body dies.”

Then you might ask: “Why bother? Who cares? What difference will it make?”

Fortunately, I’ve got answers.

What difference will it make?

I can guarantee you that it will make a difference—by definition—even though I don’t know exactly what difference it will be.

A world where you write something or draw something or record something is manifestly different from a world in which you don’t do that.

So it will make a difference. At least for a while.

How big a difference? For how long?

Who knows. It might trigger a chain of events that result in an enormous change and a profound difference between the world in which you create something and the world where you don’t. Or its existence might be the only difference. You create it. No one finds it — end of the story.

But if you decide, “That’s enough of a difference,” then that’s enough of a difference.

Who cares?

Even if no one else cares, I do.

Even if I don’t know who you are or what you created or where I might find it if I looked, I care.

Does it matter that I care?

It matters to me.

It’s up to you to decide if it matters for you.

And there might be other people who would care if you asked them. You might say something like, “I’m thinking about writing something—maybe about our relationship, maybe about my past, maybe about something else entirely. What would you like me to write about?”

And they might give you something to write about.

They might start by saying, “I don’t know.” If they do, you have two choices. One is you can say, “Well, think about it some more,” and then maybe they’ll come up with something.

Or you can say: “I don’t know! That’s a great topic.” And then you can write about what you don’t know. Or about what they don’t know or what I don’t know.

Seriously, I could fill volumes writing about things that I don’t know.

They might say: “I don’t care.” Of course, they do. If they genuinely didn’t care, they wouldn’t even answer your question. So they care. Write about why they do care, even if they say they don’t.

Why bother?

1. Because if will make a difference

2. Because I care.

3. Because other people care.

4. Because what else are you going to do?

Think about it.

You’re not dead, and you can do something.

Anything that you do is approximately infinity times more worthwhile than doing nothing.

So that’s what I did today.

I’m not dead yet, and I created this.

What’s next for me?

We’ll find out tomorrow.

What’s next for you?

That’s up to you.

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