Lunch at the Station

“What do you think

of immortality,

sir?”

“What do I

think of what?”

“What do you think

of immortality,

sir?

What if one

could live

forever?”

“I think, sir,

it would be

quite smashing!”

“Truly?”

“Truly!”

“Please, do tell.”

“I think it would be

quite smashing to see

how the world would

evolve over time.

Civilizations would rise,

empires would fall,

and one could be

witness to all!

And think, good man,

of advances

in science! Just think

where we’ll be by

next cent’ry – or next!

We might fin’lly acheive

our highest goal;

the complexity of

man perfected.”

“Perfected, you say?”

“Perfected, says I.”

“Pray tell how

that could be done.

After all, are we all

not flawed beings?”

“Indeed we are,

but do you not see?

Society is constantly moving.

Growing and learning and

building; improving on

what has been laid

in the past.

In time, good sir,

I surely believe

mankind can

achieve its

perfection.”

“You forget one thing.”

“And what thing is that?”

“Hist’ry is never precise;

‘tis always impure

and muddied in spots;

surely that would

not suffice, and

what makes you think

that will change?”

“Immortality, of course!”

“Immortality?”

“Yes! Immortality

granted to one.

If one were to live

through all diff’rent times,

that one could ensure

said hist’ry stays sound.”

“And you propose,

sir, that you be

 the one?

History’s only immortal?”

“I never said that.”

“You inferred it,

good sir.”

“Well, would it

be all that bad?”

“I pity you, friend.”

“You pity me, sir?”

“I pity you, yes, indeed.

In this dream,

your fantastical dream,

you’ve forgotten

one obvious fact.

You forget that

everything dies.

You would be

the only immortal,

yet also would be the

lonely immortal.

The earth would still spin,

the seasons still change,

and sunset would always

fall West. But you,

my dear friend, would

outlive us all;

all you would

learn of is

Death.

How it comes in the night

and snaps like a trap;

how it whittles away

at life slowly;

How it withers the leaves

and crushes the flow’rs

and tears away

at human flesh.

Death would surround

and consume

all you love,

all that you now

hold most dear.

Until at last

you would wish,

my dear friend,

that Death your own

flesh would tear.

Is this the

 life you would

choose, truly?”

“Hrmph! I suppose,

it is not.”