“My days are numbered!”
“Oh really! Mine too! What a coincidence!” I said in a mocking tone, and thus obviously invoking the fury of a guy who is lying on a hospital bed, with countless tubes coming in and going out of him. Some of them, the ones that pump red colored liquid, which might very well be carrot juice, are decidedly more exciting than other transparent fluid carrying ones. The numbers in the nearby machines keep on changing and follow some sort of cyclic pattern. I wonder, how boring would it have been in olden times when the hospitals were just beds and parts of people! No cool machines and tubes that give the whole room a feel of a miniature water theme park.
“You think, I am joking. Don’t you?!” he says sounding not too happy at my numbered days coincidence gig.
I want to say, “No” but don’t want to lie as somewhere inside, I feel that people can smell lies once they are on a hospital bed. And the truth is that due to my uncanny ability to find traces of humor, I think there is a jocular element to the whole statement.
I actually hate when people say that my days are numbered. My hate resides more in the use of word ‘numbered’ than in the utmost pessimism forming the foundation of such a statement. What do they mean when they say ‘numbered’? Is it countdown kind of thing where they are counting it on their fingers, and just to delay the eventuality and increase counting means they have taken their shoes off too. Aren’t all of us going to live for numbered days? I don’t know anybody who lived for infinite number of days or even to a lesser extent somebody who lived to ‘iota’. I would love to meet somebody who says, “Ah! You know what, I found the cheat code of life, I have infinite life till Level 10”.
I imagine myself meeting the same guy again at Pearly gates and saying, “Weren’t you the ‘cheat code of life’ guy?”
“Yeah!…code worked…but system crashed!” he replies.