I.
Gentle reader, let us embark on a whimsical inquiry into mankind’s most vaunted delusion: the pursuit of eternal life. A notion so preposterous, so dripping with hubris, that even the gods—were they not already immortal—would clutch their sides in divine laughter. Picture, if you will, a world where Methuselah’s 969 years are but a fleeting apprenticeship, and Death himself retires, pensionless, to a cottage in Connecticut. What a splendid mess we’d make of eternity!
II.
Imagine poor old Jim, a man cursed with immortality. He’s seen thirteen revolutions, married seven times (twice to the same woman—forgot the first go-round), and memorized every variation of cornbread known to man. When I last encountered him, he was slumped at a saloon, nursing his tenth whiskey of the century. “Mark,” he groaned, “you think Purgatory’s tedious? Try sittin’ through the third invention of the wheel. Turns out, the Romans had it right the first time. Or was it the Egyptians? Blast if I recall.”
Jim’s plight is universal: immortality is but a protracted parlor trick, dazzling at first glance, then as tiresome as a politician’s promise.
III.
Ah, but the optimists chirp: “Think of the knowledge! The progress!” To which I reply: balderdash. The immortal man is a jackdaw, forever collecting shiny trinkets of wisdom, only to drop them into the void of endless tomorrows. Why master the violin today when you’ve got ten millennia to fumble through Twinkle, Twinkle? Procrastination, my friends, is the true immortal’s creed.
And what of love? To watch sweethearts wither like daisies in frost, while you linger, unchanging, as a portrait in a dusty attic? Why, the heart would grow calluses thicker than a banker’s ledger.
IV.
Let us consider the practicalities. Suppose you amass a fortune—gold, land, railroads. Splendid! Now guard it for eternity from lawyers, heirs, and termites. (Termites, by the by, are Nature’s reminder that even immortality has its limits.) And bureaucracy! Picture an immortal’s tax return: Occupation: “Renaissance Man.” Birthdate: “See Babylonian tablets, Box 12.” The IRS would crumble faster than a sandcastle at high tide.
V.
But here’s the rub: Death is life’s finest seasoning. Without it, existence is a soup eternally simmering—never served, never savored, just a bland broth of somedays and whys. The mortal man plants an apple tree knowing he’ll never taste its fruit, and therein finds poetry. The immortal? He’ll grumble through ten thousand harvests, cursing each worm-eaten apple.
VI.
I dare say the Almighty, in His infinite wisdom, fashioned death not as a curse, but a mercy. A cosmic encore, lest life’s play drag on like a Puritan sermon. To crave eternity is to scorn the gift of finality—to mistake the sunset for a defect, rather than the day’s perfect climax.
Epilogue:
So let us toast to mortality, that sly scoundrel who lends urgency to our follies and sweetness to our triumphs. As for eternal life? I’ll take my three-score and ten, with a double measure of laughter and a chaser of gin. After all, what’s heaven but a place where nobody’s in a hurry—and nobody’s particularly happy about it?
Finis.
P.S. Should you encounter an immortal, kindly direct them to the nearest cemetery. There’s nothing like a graveyard to remind a man he’s late for his own demise.
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