A More Meaningful Kind of Immortality

As a science fiction writer, I've always been hopeful about the future—especially when it came to medical advancements. With AI helping to cure diseases that were once untreatable, I was excited to live in a time when biological immortality wasn't just some crackpot idea. I used to look forward to the possibility of living forever, but after losing Blueboy, that excitement quickly faded. Living forever would mean never seeing him again, and that's not a future I'd want to live in.

In the wake of this loss, I've spent the past month trying to focus more on the present, but the whole idea of "living in the moment" now feels like childish optimism. Harsh reality has shown me I can't just sit around anymore hoping for a utopian future. And honestly, expecting much from my government to expedite that future seems pointless, like relying on a broken clock to tell time.

With my rose-tinted view of tomorrow thoroughly shattered, I've found myself soul-searching for a new purpose. I've a lot of respect for scientists, and as much as I would like to be one, to be someone making a tangible difference in the world, the unfortunate reality is that it's way too damn expensive and way too late to go back to school.

So, after tossing it around in my head for days, trying to find new meaning in my life and how I could still contribute, the best answer I could come up with is to keep doing what I do best: write. Write more about the people I care about—their experiences, their struggles, their successes. In a way, it's the closest thing to achieving a more meaningful kind of immortality. Maybe, some time in the far future, someone who does have the power to change the world will come across my words in the far corners of the Internet or in the pages of some rotting book, and find some semblance of inspiration. There's a bittersweet comfort in knowing that the stories I write—about myself and the people I care for—will continue existing long after our bodies have turned to ash.