This sonnet has been among my favourite pieces of poetry since I first discovered it in Mr Stack’s English literature class, a great many years ago. Recently they sprang into my mind again, these long loved lines being defined in a new way.

This weekend I was faced with decisions no one who enjoys life wants to consider, those that come with not with the fear that I may cease to be, but the certainty that that time will come. Oh yes, it was time to talk life insurance, disability protections and updates to my will. All delightful prospects to be sure, each one designed to force me to not only face my own lack of immortality, but the myriad of “what if” scenarios that go along with it. To sum this experience up in a word? Ugh.

There is nothing more starkly bleak than having to define your life in terms of what you owe vs. what you own, and how it would all break down if that legendary bus leapt out at you the next time you tried to cross the street. Oh wait, there is. Figuring out what it would cost you to keep what you have if that vile and sneaky bus merely clipped you, rendering you unable to work but still very much alive and kicking. It was with such thoughts flying through my head that I spent my days off, toying with budgets and breakdowns, balancing what I’d like to have against what it would cost me per month to pay for the protection of “just in case” insurance policies.

Having recently bought a condo, I was also in need of an updated will, forcing me to open up that grim manila envelope where I store my last wishes and review what I had determined was to happen to my worldly goods when I had cashed out and left it all into the care of others. It occurred to me rather too late that a dark and dreary day in January, with the wind blowing cold and the rain pouring down, is no time to start pondering such morbid topics. But once broached, there was no point in putting it off, and so I took a long walk through the garden of “What if”, with a few laps around the well of “When I’m gone” for good measure.

Having faced reality, mortality and maturity squarely in the face, I am now looking forward to signing off on my decisions and reverting back to my preferred outlook for life; A combination of denial, childish delight in simple things and lengthy stays in fantastical worlds written by myself or others. In other words, I’m putting reality back in its box and stuffing it to the back of the closet so I can forget about it for a bit. I’ve come to realize that too much reality just interferes with the best parts of living.