Sometimes, it's not about your life, or rather the end of it. And sometimes, it's not about your death, and how or when that will come to pass. Because it will come to pass.

Sometimes, it's about your brother's life, or your mother's, or your neighbour's, or the life of that man on the tube with the three piercings and a sleeve full of colourful ink.

Sometimes, it's about what you can do with your life. Sometimes, it's about how you can give your life away. Sometimes, the countless, and even faceless, lives that you are allowing to continue trudging onward are worth those days of yours that could have been. Those days, weeks, months, and years that you gift to them seem a fair exchange for the dream of years, months, weeks, and days of your own, snuffed out as you fight your way to the front line of the battlefield. Head held high. Heart calm. Eyes sure and determined. Hands open, no longer clinging to those unlived moments. Feet taking their final strides in an act of monumental love and protection.

Sometimes, your own life is but a speck of dust tossing about amongst the waves of time and space. And yet, sometimes, your life is so much bigger than that. And your death may cause ripples the magnitude of a typhoon. And it might be worth it.

Sometimes, it's not about your life or its too-soon end.