Fifteen minutes? Really? There must be some mistake. You see, I’ve been taking better care of myself lately. I exercise, I take my pills…how can you be sure it’s only fifteen minutes?
When I was very young, I decided I wanted to live to be 100 years old. Unlike other kids I knew who took the credo of “live fast, die young” to heart, I never took any risks. I shied away from potential danger, choosing instead to live as safely as possible. Some people might say that I wasted the years I was given in trying to preserve my life, but I didn’t want a thrill. I only wanted more life.
I’m going to miss my target by more than sixty years. Do I have any regrets? Yes. Of course. I wish I’d moved to
. I wish I’d gone ahead and tried some recreational drugs besides marijuana. I should have started writing ten years ago instead of just two. But I’ve had a very good life. I found my soul mate, and I wouldn’t trade our years together for anything – not even New York , recreational drugs, and thirty completed novels. New York
I’ve still got so much I want to say. I want to properly describe the joy of a happy marriage and the heartbreak of being left alone. I want to touch more people’s lives with my words. That’s the magic of being a writer, though. I’ll still be doing that long after I’m gone from this beautiful planet.
I understand now. Knowing you’ve only got fifteen minutes is really a blessing: enough time to accept, but not so long that you suffer. Enough time to call your loved ones and tell them goodbye. Life is fleeting and many people don’t even get fifteen minutes of knowing the end is coming.