What struck me most about the story was the urgency with which the man had lived out those last few months. A high, I imagine it must have approximated, an adrenalin-fuelled few months propelled by the sharp awareness that life was not infinite, and that man himself was neither invincible nor immortal.
But most of us don't have the 'luxury' of a spectre of death eclipsing our day-to-day preoccupations with, say, material possessions, or even interpersonal politics. We don't usually find out about our death three months before we get hit by a bus; and when we realise that our bodily existence is not infallible, there isn't usually enough time for introspective contemplation concerning the veracity of our lives. Where is the urgency, then, for those of us who suspect, rather pluckily, that we will live forever, and who betray this suspicion in the nurturing of dreams and careers and futures?
It's not wrong, I don't think, for us not to have that propulsive force of Purpose and Truth in the quotidian, flawed though these terms may be. It's not quite sustainable to be consistently divinely inspired. And perhaps that's why we make do with the mundane. Perhaps it's okay to be okay with the mundane. Our present selves, incapable of sustaining the incredible mental energy required to maintain the level of beatific inspiration evoked by 'real' promises of death, addresses Life by building structures of dreams, habits, relations, so that in the non-drama of death we get to be a bit dramatic about Life.
This must be a 'cf. Sisyphus and his boulder' moment.
Image from http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-7f-G1YIJyAI/Tony8cm5wcI/AAAAAAAAAiY/e_hG6J7MIJo/s400/Francis-Transitus1Crp.jpg