There’s a lot of dying going around. Famous celebrities shooting up too much heroin. Fathers of our friends passing away on trips to Peru. Our actual friends having cardiac arrests in the gym. It’s senseless.
If I was a betting woman I’d say this dying this is contagious.
I’m afraid of death. The idea of this measly little life I have being OVER – it can’t be true. I haven’t gone to Africa. I never got published. I am not blissfully happy, goddamnit. And yet, around ever corner, I tiptoe carefully – sure that Mr. Reaper is waiting to snatch me from the shadows.
What will I regret when I’m dead? What will I be grateful for?
Last night I had a party to go to and I didn’t go. Instead, I watched Austenland in bed with a bowl of M&M’s. The light was off by 9. Will I regret that? Will I regret not being more social, more effervescent, more sparkly and superb? Probably. And what about the M&M’s? Or watching a movie alone while Sam went out without me? Or going to sleep at 9 instead of staying up and working on my opus? Maybe, probably, I don’t know.
The point is, I spend much of my waking days thinking about death. Thinking about what I should be doing so I don’t regret it when I’m dead. And thinking some more about life and how short “it” is. This transient state of consciousness trapped in a fragile little human shell. And then I keep thinking about all of us here, scrambling about for fame and fortune and power – all these quicksilver lives. These flashes in the pan. All of us one dark corner away from crashing into death.
And then another day goes by and it looks pretty much the same for me as the day before. It’s insane. I’m insane.
But one thing I do know – when it comes to death, we all look the same.
Good deeds, bad deeds, jewels, titles, money in the bank…
pictures in the paper, kids, dogs, smokers, drinkers, avaricious pursuits…
druggies, terrorists, rapists, environmentalists…
nurses, doctors, janitors, and black market organ salesmen…we all look the same to death.