Facing the end of one's life places things in startling perspective: what things were important? What weren't?

As I face the end of my days, I see now that virtually nothing I did was important. Even less important were the things I owned. Accomplishments and possessions become almost laughably trivial. I could be homeless and would likely feel no more dissatisfied (although life would be admittedly rather awkward). I worked long and hard to acquire a "killer" stereo, and it did indeed bring me a great deal of joy. But what of it? I doubt I would miss it.

Among my more notable achievements had to be my woodland home, and indeed I hold that up as perhaps my greatest accomplishment. But, strangely, while I miss it terribly, I still wonder if I'd have been any less happy had I not gotten the opportunity. There's no knowing what paths my life might have taken had I made different choices along the way.

Life just might have been better: you see, for every nice thing that I've gotten to enjoy in my life, ten other bad things took place. Perhaps pursuing very different options, I might have been gifted with less bad stuff. Or, possibly more.

Best not to ponder such things: they are outside the realm of possibility, and thus they amount to regrets, which are the most dangerous of all that exists. Life is a one-way dead-end street, after all.

All I can do is consider what was important, and in retrospect, I find very few things in life really mattered.

Among the things that did matter: friends.

As asocial as I tend to be, I've found friends among the things in life that have been most important. It is difficult to live without them. Oh, I'm sure I could have found a way to get by, but it would have been significantly harder and certainly less pleasant: hell, it was bad enough as it was.

So, here's to my friends. You know who you are. I'd likely be nothing without your support.

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