Although I may be lying to myself, I claim I’m not afraid of death.
Dying, sure, especially if it involves losing control of my bowels, is scary, but being dead, not so much. When I’m gone, I’m gone, and while it pains me to imagine how my loved ones might feel (and I do stress “might”) at not having me around, the idea of my own non-existence isn’t, I think, all that troubling.
If, by an expected turn of events, my consciousness perseveres after my body dies, and I continue to have experiences of some sort, then I wouldn’t really be dead, would I? So, to fear that eventuality (which, frankly, I don’t) wouldn’t really be to fear death; it would be to fear the next stage of life. And since I’ve already admitted that the prospect of a painful demise is frightening, I don’t think this commits me to a fear of death, either.
Of course, I could be just kidding myself; it’s entirely possible I’m unaware of my true feelings or maybe I’m simply so terrified that I’m able to convince myself of something that isn’t the case at all. That’s a reasonably scary prospect, but one that doesn’t really give me the shivers either.
Being dead actually sounds pretty sweet when you think about it: no more bills to pay, dental appointments to keep, and contrary to the way most horror movies portray it, no need to cut your hair or fingernails ever again. Picture a nice, long sleep never broken by the morning alarm clock.
I’m certainly in no big hurry to meet my demise, but at the same time, I can’t say I won’t welcome it when it does arrive. I like the way those old sadhus in India did it: they’d just take a seat and wait for the grim reaper to appear, nothing scary about it; they’d already seen the nastiest life had to offer; death could be no worse.
Dying, sure, especially if it involves losing control of my bowels, is scary, but being dead, not so much. When I’m gone, I’m gone, and while it pains me to imagine how my loved ones might feel (and I do stress “might”) at not having me around, the idea of my own non-existence isn’t, I think, all that troubling.
If, by an expected turn of events, my consciousness perseveres after my body dies, and I continue to have experiences of some sort, then I wouldn’t really be dead, would I? So, to fear that eventuality (which, frankly, I don’t) wouldn’t really be to fear death; it would be to fear the next stage of life. And since I’ve already admitted that the prospect of a painful demise is frightening, I don’t think this commits me to a fear of death, either.
Of course, I could be just kidding myself; it’s entirely possible I’m unaware of my true feelings or maybe I’m simply so terrified that I’m able to convince myself of something that isn’t the case at all. That’s a reasonably scary prospect, but one that doesn’t really give me the shivers either.
Being dead actually sounds pretty sweet when you think about it: no more bills to pay, dental appointments to keep, and contrary to the way most horror movies portray it, no need to cut your hair or fingernails ever again. Picture a nice, long sleep never broken by the morning alarm clock.
I’m certainly in no big hurry to meet my demise, but at the same time, I can’t say I won’t welcome it when it does arrive. I like the way those old sadhus in India did it: they’d just take a seat and wait for the grim reaper to appear, nothing scary about it; they’d already seen the nastiest life had to offer; death could be no worse.
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