I once heard that there's a type of insect who only lives for about a day. It was called a mayfly, if I'm not mistaken. I assume, from experience, that when most people learn that particular tidbit, they'll respond with a lovely mixture of pity and egotism, à la "That's too bad, but at least I don't have such a short lifespan." Seems likely enough; people love being able to claim superiority over someone, or something, that isn't them, no matter how big or small that difference may be.
To that, I reply with this: When did quantity start overshadowing quality?
Does having more time on this world mean that we're gonna be happier? Does it mean that we won't completely waste the "vast" amount of years granted to us, rather than the mayfly, who must savour each moment given to it? Besides, does the mayfly even know how little time it has left? If it has never known life beyond twenty-four hours, can it even comprehend existing any other way?
Can we understand what lies beyond the 100,000-year-threshold?
Does having an even harsher timeline limit one's happiness, if they don't even realize how harsh it is? Does fruit lose it's sweetness to a mayfly? Does their sun lack in warmth, or does their wind lack the chill ours does? Do their colours dim in comparison to ours, if they have less time to savour them?
If their world pales against ours, how do our lives stand before those of the mountains, or the oceans, or the wind whistling around us? They have remained in this world since times immemorial, and look as if they aren't going anywhere - what does that make us?
We are the cosmic mayflies. When the universe thinks of us, they will do so in a mixture of pity and egotism. I'm sure of it. They will say, "That's too bad, but at least I will last much, much longer than them." And they will remain to watch us all die, nameless and easily forgotten.
Jeez, that certainly got dark.
But yeah, we all die.
None of us will last beyond the rocks, or the waters, or the darkness between the stars at night. We will outlive the mayflies, though, for the most part. We don't have to like that fact, but we have to accept it.
We will all die. But while we live, we may as well have fun.
And, I guess that brings us here - a dark, dim tavern, with smoke and sweat clinging to the walls like unwanted guests. A glass of ale in hand, feet propped up on a table, I felt the stares of the closest patrons being sucked towards me like light around a black hole. I guess these guys had never seen such a sharp-dressed Skakdi in a trash-heap pub like this, especially one who looked so uncharacteristically calm, which was a real shame - everyone should have that chance.
My permanently-affixed smile was now flexed into something akin to happiness, and my dodger blue eyes were most likely flickering dangerously in the low, yellowish light. I peered through the semi-darkness at the assembled arrangement of mercs, outlaws, undesirables and other rabble of Onu-Wahi, only occasionally split up by the plain-clothes Guard trying in vain to remain inconspicuous.
"Here, here, let me help you with that," I heard wafting through the chatter and smoke, tempting me to turn my head and search for the speaker. When I finally did, I was greeted by the sight of bronzish-gold Toa grinning at the collapsed form of an inebriate. It was clear enough to a trained alcoholic that the duo had been in a drinking competition, and Goldielocks had come out on top. Another few folks looking for happiness, I guess. Fair enough.
With a final sip of my drink, I set it down on the table, slipping my feet off of it's surface at the same time, before striding over to Goldie's seat.
"That's some liver you've got yourself there," I remarked, tapping the Toa on the shoulder to catch his attention, "I suppose another game wouldn't do you much more harm, eh?"
OOC: That would be Dendron he's talking to, Grochi.