Death.
A gut twister of a thought.
There will be a point in which I no longer exist. I like existing. Therefore death is terrifying. Impermanence creeps into your consciousness, knowledge of that inevitable moment where you realise "this is it".
It started some months ago. Maybe three. I found that although I knew about my mortality, although I had considered it for years, I had never been truly aware of it. Then it crept in. I stopped sleeping because of it. Terror would grip me, probe its tendrils into my as yet fragile mind. You are going to die. You are going to stop. It is going to happen and it may very well be painful. It may be horrific. Your pampered sheltered lady body who has known no true pain could be smashed and ruptured and split and your last thoughts won't be "this is it" but "Agony".
My death. My end. My family's death. Who will die first. When will it happen.
Then.
Through constant contemplation.
War.
There are people who have marched into battle, knowing they are about to be hewn and hacked and shot and their last moments will not be witnessed by anyone other than the god they will be sent to and the enemy who fights for causes as just at theirs.
Hope is their crutch. Hope that they may see their families again, that they may turn the tide through bravery and luck and worth of spirit. Then they may die peacefully when it is their time. And what greater reward than a post-war death
I have no battle, but surely I can live my life with the same mind.
I can fight the overwhelming punishing oppressing shadow of death, and my goal will be to die with those I love surrounding me, holding me and telling me that they love me.
And if that is not how I die, I will die screaming and thrashing. Clawing. Fighting against death because it is not my time. Even if it is.
Death won't take me alive.
A gut twister of a thought.
There will be a point in which I no longer exist. I like existing. Therefore death is terrifying. Impermanence creeps into your consciousness, knowledge of that inevitable moment where you realise "this is it".
It started some months ago. Maybe three. I found that although I knew about my mortality, although I had considered it for years, I had never been truly aware of it. Then it crept in. I stopped sleeping because of it. Terror would grip me, probe its tendrils into my as yet fragile mind. You are going to die. You are going to stop. It is going to happen and it may very well be painful. It may be horrific. Your pampered sheltered lady body who has known no true pain could be smashed and ruptured and split and your last thoughts won't be "this is it" but "Agony".
My death. My end. My family's death. Who will die first. When will it happen.
Then.
Through constant contemplation.
War.
There are people who have marched into battle, knowing they are about to be hewn and hacked and shot and their last moments will not be witnessed by anyone other than the god they will be sent to and the enemy who fights for causes as just at theirs.
Hope is their crutch. Hope that they may see their families again, that they may turn the tide through bravery and luck and worth of spirit. Then they may die peacefully when it is their time. And what greater reward than a post-war death
I have no battle, but surely I can live my life with the same mind.
I can fight the overwhelming punishing oppressing shadow of death, and my goal will be to die with those I love surrounding me, holding me and telling me that they love me.
And if that is not how I die, I will die screaming and thrashing. Clawing. Fighting against death because it is not my time. Even if it is.
Death won't take me alive.
