The Making of a Life

Prologue

Life is a funny thing. Some might say a soul and friends make a life. Others say faith in God, or maybe God himself. The principle in which I prescribe is neither faith nor friends. Blood makes a life. A pumping heart and flowing electrons allow us to live. Life is funny—peculiar, even—because no one actually knows what makes a life. Not really, at least.

Sometimes now I find life overrated, like masterpiece with no rhyme or reason—a poem that says but doesn’t speak. Sometimes I wonder why I even put up with this ‘wondrous exaltation’ that is the life of a human; why I haven’t ended it, saved myself from having to wonder what makes life. Sometimes I sit on the windowsill, knife in hand, and ask myself why I don’t just do it: shove the shiny blade through chest and let my blood flow out, let my heart stop beating, and let the circuits, on which my electrons flow, break. It seems that would be easier, no?

But then I remember and remind myself why I haven’t sunk the knife through my ribs and into my heart and lungs. I remind myself that to give up, to let a query fester without answer, would be much more a painful death than any blade through my chest. And I stare at the knife and think, long and hard, why we live. I thumb the hilt over and over again, savoring the feel of leather under my skin. I savor what I know might be fraudulent.

I’m not that different from everyone else, then. The religious praise their gods, carefully overlooking the lack of proof that they exist. The scientists strive for absolute zero, but are never close enough. The dreamers grasp for perfection, letting it dissolve into flaws through their fingers. I am just like the religious, the scientists, the dreamers; I search for naught.

Then, like every other day, my eyes find the sharp tip of the blade again, and my brain—no, my mind—yearns for an answer.

What is the making of a life?