Happy Birthday Eternity

Authors: Luke Alden

By Luke Alden

“The day which we fear as our last is but the birthday of eternity.”

-Seneca

Part I

My name is Ellis Jackson. I'm 2038 years old. I didn't meet the love of my life until I turned 578. Her name is Evaline. She has pale skin and collagen injected lips. Like everyone else that lives forever, most of her body is fake.

I love Evaline even though I barely remember why. I just know that I do. I'm relying on the fact that I've said it so many times that there must have once been a reason for my love.

But isn't that how we always go through life? Relying on our words to justify our actions? Whatever happened to justifying our words with our actions?

'I'm going to die.'

'What's that supposed to mean?'

'It means I'm going to die.'

'You mean you're going to kill yourself?'

'No, I'm dying.'

'I don't understand.'

'I'm going to die.'

'When?'

'Within the next fifty years...'

A pause. A breath. A nervous twisting of nervous fingers. This is how the moment goes. This is how my wife tells me that she's going to die. I'm incapable of processing this information.

'I'm not sure how I should react to this.'

‘...'

And then it's silence.

Silence like you see in the movies. The silence you get after a crucial plot point is revealed. The silence that allows the viewing audience to breathe and digest the emotions that they're being fed.

Again.

A pause. A breath. A nervous twisting of nervous fingers.

Evaline looks into my eyes. She says that I'm the chorus to her verse. Me. Ellis Jackson. A 2038 year old narcissist who still jerks off into the toilet because he can't get any action from the verse to his chorus.

She's going to die.

Death is not a part of my reality.

We were supposed to live forever.

We were supposed to coast along, stuck in our ancient routines. Because when natural death stops existing, when the only way that we can die is from the unexpected, from a suicide or from an accident, there's not a lot that motivates us to stay away from routine.

And so we do this little dance where we have no motivation, where human achievement becomes a thing of the past. We have forever to get things done; why rush?

But now Evaline is going to die.

Now Evaline is going to die and all that I can wonder is what this means for me.

Is a song still a song if there aren't any verses?

I'm biting my lip. I'm furrowing my brow. I'm trying to wrap my brain around that which does not exist within my already established reality.

So she asks me what we should do.

'I don't know. Fix dinner I suppose.'

'Ok.'

The only constant thread throughout the history of humanity is how we stick to routine. It's not a bad thing; it's just how we survive. Like wolves that stay in packs, like bears that sleep all winter, our routines are what keep up safe and warm.

So it’s evening and I’m watching television with Evaline and she’s smiling and laughing along with the beats of the show and everything is happy and normal except for the fact that she’s going to die.

But I still don’t know what that means.

So I laugh along with her.

I hold her hand.

Our fingers tangle.

I rub my thumb on her wedding ring. I was once told that the band is supposed to symbolize infinity.

What did people do before forever?

She looks at me and I can feel her eyes running up my skin. It’s a good feeling.

And this is how our nights go.

Dinner.

TV.

Laughing.

Etc.

We’ve got our routine carefully plotted; an intricate storyline where there’s forgotten meaning to the actions we repeat.

It all makes sense.

I love her.

I love her because I tell myself that I love her.

She rests her head on my shoulder.

It feels heavier than before. It weights me and pushes me until I feel as if I’ll never be able to get up. I’m not even sure if I want to.

And I don’t know how to conceptualize fifty years. It’s a meaningless number. There is no context. The measurement of time through years has essentially been forgotten.

Fifty years.

Death.

Love.

These are the things I never think about.

These are the things that I take for granted.

The only reason I'm still alive is because I don't know what death is. Only people in third world countries die. Only poor people that can’t afford first world luxuries have to face death.

Out of sight, out of mind.

Here, in my reality, people don't age, people don't die, and people don't get sick.

No one has kids.

No one truly grows.

We're complacent in the fact that the world has marketed, packaged and sold us on eternal life.

I was born in the second generation of the undead. Born to parents who once knew what death was, born to parents who had felt the presence of death in their lives. Born before the government outlawed children as a means to keep the population under control.

During the initial movement of the undead. When it was just emerging, when genes that stopped the aging process were first being isolated, before the endless chemical peels and face lifts that kept our skin from rotting, some people actually wanted to die. They said that it wasn't natural to live forever. They said they wanted to pass on to a greater place. To a heaven. To a nirvana. To a new life.

They couldn't have children because of the new laws.

Without new generations wanting to die, the idea of death eventually just… fizzled

No one dies.

Accidents are rare.

Suicide is even rarer. Most people don't even remember what suicide is.

And so we go on living.

Because that's what we know how to do.

We go to our jobs that never end.

We make money to spend on gene therapy and plastic surgery.

Work.

Spend.

Live.

It's a simple formula. It's basic math. It's a testament to humanity's ability to oversimplify. Without death we don't fear, without fear we don't change, without change we simply dig a niche of routine so deeply that we'll never be able to get out of it. And perhaps that's how things have always been.

But I wouldn't know.

You'd think that eternal life would equate to a search for greater meaning.

A need to perfect things simply because we finally had the time.

You'd think we would accumulate knowledge, ideas, experience.

Of course we don't. Those things may have been novel for the first 200 years, but they got old.

Like a river carving out a path, adventure always gives way to complacency.

And when I was younger, before I'd found my routine, before I'd found a rhythm to base my life around, I'd always assumed that the love of my life would be someone who I would spend eternity caring for, someone that I'd never stop being passionate about. I had assumed that it'd be like in the books I once read. I had assumed that I'd spend years molding every aspect, like the perfect poem, each line painstakingly tended to.

But love isn't about romance.

The words love and routine, they're interchangeable in my world.

And so now I’m living this life. Spending my days with Evaline. We wake. We kiss. We leave. We work. We eat. We watch television. We go to bed. It’s natural. Without it we’d be lost.

Right now I’m at work. In the middle of another meeting for another product that’s exactly the same as the last.

I’ve got my tie on. I’ve got my freshly shaved face and cologne. I’ve got my hair gelled and I’m flashing my white teeth every time I speak.

I’ve had this job for longer than I can remember.

1000 years.

Maybe more.

When something becomes easy I tend to stick with it.

With simplicity comes complacency comes the comfort of routine.

I keep thinking of Evaline.

She is the love of my life.

She’s going to die.

The words still have no meaning to me.

Franklin, my co-worker, my pal, the person that I talk about sports with, he comes up to me.

‘You look lost.’

‘I am.’

‘Why?’

‘Evaline is going to die.’

‘Is she going to kill herself?’

‘No.’

‘Huh. Weird.’

And he’s not meaning to sound cold or callous or anything at all. He simply doesn’t understand what it means.

Death.

It’s like trying to comprehend God when all you’ve got is a bible.

So I reply: ‘Yeah, I know.’

I keep typing on my computer. Writing memo’s. Preparing time sensitive documents. Doing all the things that are now second nature to me.

‘Did you want to go get something to drink after work today?’

‘Nah, I’m good. Thanks though.’

‘You sure?’

‘I should probably spend some time with my wife.’

‘Whatever you gotta do.’

And of course I agree to go to the bar. Because it’s Tuesday and that’s what we do on Tuesday. Me and Franklin and Doug from the copy room. We all go to the bar. We all drink. We all drive home drunk. We all try and fuck our wives. We all get shot down. We all jerk off into our respective toilets. We all go to bed smelling like booze and sweat.

It’s nice in a way.

And so after work I call my wife.

‘I’m going to the bar with Franklin.’

‘Can’t you spend the evening with me?’

‘I already said that I’d go.’

‘Ellis…’

‘We’ll hang out tomorrow.’

And this is how it is.

Everything gets put off. Everything gets put off because we have forever to get things done.

‘Did you hear!?!’ This is Franklin. ‘Ellis’s wife is gonna die!’

There’s a broken moment of confusion where everyone at the table seems puzzled. We’ve all got beers in our hands; we’ve all got red eyes.

Me.

Franklin.

Doug (who we don’t really care about, but we allow him to join us on occasion).

Kevin the bartender.

‘Is she joining one of those death cults down south?’ This is Kevin.

‘Death cult?’

‘Yeah, you know, I hear that they have them down in Mexico and stuff. People who kill themselves just because they want to try something new.’

‘No.’

‘So she’s not killing herself?’

‘Not killing herself.’

‘Then how’s she gonna die?’

This is a question I hadn’t thought to ask. Maybe I didn’t care, maybe I didn’t think to care. How is she going to die? Why is she going to die?

When life is endless, the bigger questions seem that much smaller.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Huh, weird.’

We all down a shot. We all cheer. We’re all like rowdy frat guys that just burst into our friends room with a video camera while he was having anal sex with a virgin.

It’s a good time. I think.

By the end of the night I’m feeling dizzy. Drunker than usual. My head’s buzzing. My eyes are half shot. The world around me is fading in and out. I know that I’m holding conversations. Trying to articulate myself like most drunk people do. Trying to sound smarter than I really am.

I start talking about death with Franklin. The words are strange. Odd. I’ve rarely ever spoken about death.

And so we ramble on.

The conversation comes out in pieces.

‘I had a dog that got hit by a car once.’

‘Nothing lasts forever.’

‘I heard a rumor about people dying on the East coast.’

‘It could be worse.’

‘Fifty years is nothing.’

‘It could be you.’

‘Coughing up blood...’

‘Is she still putting out?’

Fragments. Non-linear, nonsensical. A mish mash of drunken philosophizing.