Before the Train Stops

Now and then, steal some time from this relentless life of yours. Make it happen. Watch a film that speaks to you; brew yourself a cup of tea with your own two hands and sit with it; travel to some place your heart has always yearned to see.

Life is like a train. It keeps moving, doesn't it? One unsuspecting morning, you'll discover that your life's locomotive has come to a halt. When you crane your neck forward to measure how much track remains ahead, you'll realize—with a shock—how many paths you meant to walk but never did, how many things you promised yourself you'd do but left undone, how many dreams you kept deferring to some tomorrow that will never come. There's no end to the count of them. And so, no end to the regret.

When the train stops, you'll understand that the distance behind you—all you've traveled—is nothing beside the infinite distance still unwalked. And by then, there will be nothing left to do. When it's too late, everything runs out. Only sighs remain.

Hold some time back for yourself. Do some things for yourself alone. Chase a few dreams against the wishes of others, stubbornly, fiercely—fulfill them even if you have to break the mold. You can't say when, or where, some turn in life's road, the engine will simply die. A train's fuel system can be fixed, its engine restarted. But life? Can life, once it stops, ever start again? Can you, however much you long for it, live even a moment more on your own terms when that moment comes?

No. You cannot. But while you're still alive, you can live a little bit—truly live—can't you? If merely being alive and truly living were the same thing, then the amoeba would be the most successful creature on earth. We are human only in name; in our deeds and our ways, we are amoebas.