Pondering my own mortality

I realized today that both my personal journal writing and this blog have touched on issues of growing old.  Sorry to veer off the sex/kinky path for a bit, but I can't help but think about my own mortality.  

This thinking got me started when I visited my mother during Thanksgiving weekend.  I hadn't seen her for awhile and was worried about her.  Her itinerant/independent ways have taken her from a strange journey from uprooting herself from the SF Bay Area after she retired, to Kansas, then back to California, where she is staying where my roots started.  She is among family and friends, so I need not worry.  Nevertheless, her memory isn't what it used to be and her sense of adventure have subsided quite a bit.  I look at her now and she looks like she's aged 10 years.  But she is 70 years old now.  Why did I just noticed that she is old?  

Then this past Thursday, my aunt called me to tell me my uncle died.  I was stunned, then a few hours later I cried, at work.  Yes, we were close.  He was, at one point, close to a father figure I had as a child.  So his death hit me pretty hard and I regret not visiting him when I had the chance.  As of now, I'm still awaiting news of when his funeral will be scheduled.  I've already told Mom I was attending both that and the burial.

When did I become old myself?

I've known many years ago that I stopped being "young".  Heh...I would argue that I never felt young even when I was youth.  All those things I'm suppose to do when I'm young, like sexual experimentation and having a wild life?  I did once I turned 30.  I don't feel old, but I know I'm not going to be able to party (and recover) when I was 18.  Actually, I don't want to be 18.  I like the me that is now. the over-the-hill, "bitter" woman who should be angry at my younger counterparts because their boobs are perkier.  But...I'm far from bitter, and I'm having better sex now than when my boobs defied gravity. (Not that my boobs look awful now, the guys in my life love my boobs.) 

The only thing I have for posterity is my writings, this blog and my written journals that I've written since I was 18.  I'm not so egotistical to think that they will be as interesting to read as Anais Nin's diaries, but I want to keep them until I die.  Then, I don't know, have one of my nieces read them and destroy them?  Then there's this blog.  But in the end it doesn't matter, for I will no longer exist to care of such things. 

As someone who holds Buddhist philosophical views, I don't believe in an afterlife.   I will come back to where I came from, back to earth, with my energy back to the universe.  My ego would like to think that I influenced some people, that I did some good, that my love will be remembered in fondness, that people will be sad when I go before I die.  At least I don't believe that I will live my life where I will never have regrets anymore.  Even if you live an intentional life, you will have regrets.  Because time is finite, and it  will destroy you like a Mexican God.