The Debt of Time

I love my ocean, truly.
One full-moon night, I want to lie on Miami Beach and watch the moonlight. That's a dream of mine.
I'm thinking I'll go when I'm old, but by then you won't be alive, and neither will I.

So why don't we get a second life? Why does God send us into the world with so little time? You wake up in the morning and it's already noon, and before noon even passes, the sun is gone again.

Look—if a person spends eight hours a day at the office out of a twelve-hour day, how many hours are left for themselves? How many days a week? A month? A year?
By this math, if someone works for thirty years, how much time do they actually have? How many days did they truly live for themselves?
The remaining twelve hours at night—people just throw them away sleeping or lounging around. There's no difference between sleep and death, really.

Have you ever calculated it? We don't actually live ninety percent of our lives. In the ten percent we do live, there are a thousand other things crowded in. Have you noticed—we don't actually live at all. Either we're grinding away, or we're living for someone else, or we're just... not living.

If work is life, then what does being alive even mean?
Thinking about all this, I just want to run away from everything.

Here's another thing. Do you know that eighty percent of the world's people have to live by rules they despise?
I don't understand why I think about such things endlessly.
I don't feel right. I need a long leave from life—from myself.