So then, if that’s my goal, let’s get there one day at a time. My intention is intentionality. I want to focus on the do-ing, on the here, on the now. I want to be present for my own life. I refuse to be a spectator operating on animal instinct and impulse carried along by tempestuous moods, always taking the course of least resistance. Such a life would be an abomination of all that I love and value. I love life. I love joy. Joy is not lying in bed, comfy and cozy. One can be happy there. One can be content there but in my most brutally honest opinion I cannot entertain the notion that one may be joyous there. Joy is exuberant, shouting, wild, energetic, frenetic. Joy is dancing, jumping, running, leaping, flying. Joy is active, alive, vibrant. It may in a quieter moment become something else, something still good, but my life is about joy and not comfort. But comfort is easy, warm, low-energy. I can slip into comfort by slipping into pajamas, crawling under sheets, staying in bed just a bit longer. Can’t I slip into the grave that way too? My fear, the one that decided my life course when I was in college, was my fear of waking up 30 or 40 or 50 years old and wondering what happened to my life. I don’t want to miss my own life. I will meet the grave one day. I want to meet it at full throttle, fully knowing where I’m going. If I’m going to meet Death, I want to meet him by not backing down in a game of chicken. I have no intention of rotting away warm and sedated while I still live.