Live two hundred years

It seems that a cell regeneration pill is already on the way that could extend the lives of millionaires to two hundred years . The rest of us will have to live as little as ever; for many, too long.

It makes me angry. I'd like to live 200 years , but I won't be able to afford it with my earnings, and I'm not going to win the lottery. Some millionaire who doesn't want to live that long could transfer me the money for the medicine and prolong my bitterness for two centuries. But millionaires prefer to take their money to their graves rather than give joy to a stranger willing to continue suffering with dignity.

I talk about this with some friends and I'm surprised by their uniform response. They don't want to live anymore. Their life is fine as it is: short . People go to church or look for signs of the afterlife in YouTube videos, yet they are wary of a long life in the flesh. They want eternity in the afterlife, but not here; they think that in the afterlife, life would be different, without conflict, without struggle, without disappointment; they dream of a life without the real trappings of life. Deep down, they dream of death.

Life, in the end, is a gift that only acquires dimension with nostalgia, when it's left behind. But, in the meantime, it also needs to acquire meaning through a purpose . Otherwise, everything is confusion and anxiety. In his impressive book , If This Is a Man , Primo Levi mentions with amazement the case of another inmate at Auschwitz who, despite the daily terror of the concentration camp, could almost be said to be happy. Within the nightmare, that little man, banished from civilized life, ugly and deformed, knew how to survive better than anyone, and that gave meaning to his life, placed him above others, and provided him with a clear path.

The path of survival brings us closer to a state of alertness that prevents overthinking, prevents nonsense, as an Argentinian might say, and wards off the so-called first-world diseases: anorexia, anxiety, depression, compulsive masturbation. There are men willing to destroy anything in order to pave the way for themselves; I suppose they prefer attacking populations or countries rather than going to a psychologist. All the world's killings are based on the personal life plan of some shady figure, even if the bloodshed is justified with grandiloquent words: security, homeland, freedom.

These men believe they're pursuing a goal, but in reality, they're addicted to the path , even at the expense of others. The path shapes them. The only thing we should ask for, barring force majeure, is that this journey in search of a life's meaning be peaceful . Aspiring to write novels that don't even interest your family, for example, is a plausible goal: you only cause emotional damage in very small circles. Even more so if one aspires to live another two hundred years without ending up a professional scoundrel.