The average human lifespan is absurdly, terrifyingly, insultingly short. Here’s one way of putting things in perspective: the first modern humans appeared on the plains of Africa at least 200,000 years ago, and scientists estimate that life, in some form, will persist for another 1.5 billion years or more, until the intensifying heat of the sun condemns the last organism to death. But you? Assuming you live to be eighty, you’ll have had about four thousand weeks. (Four Thousand Weeks)

Do I think life is too short? I used to believe life is too long, but that thought still exists though weaker these days. Do I want more time though? I don’t have an answer to that. If I imagine myself getting hit by a truck tomorrow, you won’t find me being distressed about it.

All my life I believe I have no anchor to tether me to this world. That doesn’t mean I had given up on life or that I’m not doing anything to make my life better. But my self-betterment is only there to maintain my sanity rather than for a significant purpose. Perhaps, that’s why life doesn’t feel too short for me. Humans generally have virtually infinite ambitions, wants, needs, and desires; every time we get something, the fulfilment spawns multiple others to fulfill. For the unrelenting and unquenchable seeker, it’s indeed insulting for their lifespan to be mismatched with their desires.

I’m not sure if my indifference to the shortness of life is problematic or not. It could be a matter of perspective, but I’ve been proven wrong many times I won’t be surprised if there’s an objective answer to this.