Would I want to live forever?
I have no idea
for the beginning.
For the furious joy of discovery,
the hunger to peel back the universe’s every secret,
to taste, touch, and name each flavor of wonder
as if the world were an orchard that never stopped blossoming.

I would chase knowledge like rain across endless fields,
fill my lungs with languages,
fold centuries of music into the marrow of my bones,
become fluent in every art and ache
to feel the ecstasy of what is possible
stretching wider than my reach.

But is there a point,
a hush after the crescendo,
where the newness curdles into routine?
Does the thrill dilute with every repetition,
each first time replaced by a thousandth?
What is the flavor of a sunrise
when you’ve counted ten million mornings
does the awe become an echo,
or do you learn to love the echo itself?

Perhaps meaning can’t survive in the absence of endings.
Perhaps it is the brevity, the fleetingness
the trembling urgency of the moment
that sculpts joy from raw experience,
that makes one lifetime,
finite and fragile,
so deeply enough.

And yet I long to outlast the ticking clock,
to savor infinity,
to taste every possible shape of being
until the hunger is replaced by a strange stillness,
the pleasure by a quiet ache.
To see if, after everything,
there is a new kind of meaning
in having done it all
or if immortality is simply
the art of learning how to let go
of wanting more.