250 Words on Immortality

[I try to start my day writing 250 words on anything. I’ll post one every Tuesday until I run out of good ones.]

Most stories about immortality are cautionary tales whose moral is “be careful what you wish for.” Living forever, we’re told, consists largely of ceaseless boredom and ennui.

Sounds like sour grapes to me. I think I’d handle it well.

“Millions long for immortality who don't know what to do with themselves on a rainy Sunday afternoon,” wrote novelist Susan Ertz, but I excel at rainy Sunday afternoons. I’m very good at doing nothing; if I feel boredom coming on, I’m also good at finding something to do.

I should define my terms. My vision of immortality doesn’t include invincibility. I could still be killed falling off a cliff or getting hit by a Cybertruck, but absent mortal trauma I wouldn’t die. Also, learning from the mistake of the mythological Tithonus, who forgot to read the fine print and won eternal life but not youth, I wouldn’t grow older. My DNA would simply stop making copying errors, which many gerontologists believe accumulate into the condition we call “aging.”

I imagine I’d read a lot. Master some trades. I’d keep a diary and send volumes to the Smithsonian a century at a time. Live in exotic places long enough to settle in and learn the language—maybe 50 years—then move on. I expect I’d become detached. It’d be hard to care about immediate problems, people and politics after you’ve lived a few centuries. I’d be a quiet loner.

I’m already halfway there!

Forever is just an infinity of rainy Sunday afternoons.

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