Eternal life is something that no one should actually want.

The petal falls because the tree is alive. A blossom that refused to wilt would not be a blossom at all, only a plastic ornament pretending at beauty. We sometimes mistake the longing for more time as a longing for no ending, but a story without an ending is not a story; it is a stuck frame, a sunset frozen halfway. Death is the punctuation that lets meaning gather, the pressure that makes a single afternoon feel dense and luminous. To want forever is, quietly, to want nothing in particular, because everything dilutes across infinite minutes. What if the ache we feel is not for more life, but for a fuller relationship with the one we already have?