We make big plans for ourselves. Well, some of us do.We get an idea in high school that consists of "you know what would be cool? If I were to ______" and then we slowly evolve from there. In college we major in engineering, because the desire to solve problems is like an addiction to us. Eventually we graduate with a box of parts in the trunk of our car and a broad but useless array of engineering fundamentals. Our diploma is a gatekey into some engineering firm or some startup where we tirelessly and meticulously build the world, or maintain it, or even develop means to destroy it. We toil, we think, we create, but mostly we fill out paperwork.We live comfortably in the upper middle class, retire comfortably, and raise healthy, balanced children. At the end of our 30 year careers, we look back on an array of projects in which we were integral, but replaceable, and we murmur to ourselves that our lives were significant because we made tangible contributions. We explain the complicated things to our grandchildren. We die loved and fondly remembered.
And then there are people like Steve Jobs. He was the engineer rock star. The Freddie Mercury of engineering.
The sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach tonight isn't because Steve Jobs is dead. I never met the man. I don't own an Apple product. My wife owns an iPod and I find the interface taxing. No, the sinking feeling in my stomach isn't for Jobs. It is the cry of my soul as it is reminded of its own fleeting mortality. "If the greatest engineer since Edison can die at a paltry 56 years," my soul worries, "then so too can I die one day." I'm only 29, I shouldn't have to worry about these things. But neither should a 56-year-old. The tragedy of life is that we don't get to choose when it starts, nor when it ends.
Update: What I wrote here about Steve Jobs' retirement seems particularly poignant, considering.
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