My whole life, as long as I can remember, I’ve been afraid of dying. The fear seems to hit me in waves, but it’s always there, constantly reminding me of my mortality. As we grow up, most of us reach a time when we start to think about life, death, universe, why we’re here. Some think about it while lying in their beds at night staring out into the darkness, some share it with friends when drunk and some just try to suppress these thoughts as soon as they surface. What almost every person seems to have in common with each other, though, is that we desperately try to find a reason for living, a meaning with our existence. One person might find cause through religion, while others find comfort in trying to understand as much as possible of the science we use to try to explain this phenomenon we refer to as life. But almost everyone seems to strive for an answer, a reason, a motivation to keep going. Why am I afraid? I can’t even begin to fathom that my life will end, that my body will stop functioning and that all the thoughts, love and sorrows I bear with me will vanish. That I will cease to exist, and that I will be just gone.
Posted on: Thu, 03 Oct 2013 05:19:58 +0000
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