Deadlines, deadlines. Life and deadlines. Each passing hour is a tick towards necessity. Each passing second is an urge to pull my hair out, one by one, to alleviate the unbearable pressure, the paralyzing constriction that sucks my breath with each gasp I take.

A dead line, I think, was never alive. Never felt the earthly whim of joy. Never ate a meal prepared by its loving partner. Never had the responsibility to be happy as well as to be accomplished. To play lest ye be dull. To finish lest ye be undone. It is dead. It was dead. It never was a lifeline.

And yet deadlines with their historical disinterest in the living steadfastly remind us of the eternal deadline that beeps when we are finally finished. Are not all deadlines simply desperate attempts to ignore The impending deadline? My tomb will be whittled with the check marks of each successive congratulations, collected as part of the determined denial which we all pursue as a kind of hobby.

The deadline is an avoidance of the ultimate, guiding me blindly towards the end of all things, comforting me with the ‘there there’s of empty completions.


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