Wow, Girlbomb_redux, I read your blog entry entitled This is how it goes
(the link may lead to the latest entry, which changes over time, so the link may not always lead to the right place), and it perfectly describes the bitter feelings I’ve always had about death! I still can’t view it as positively in the end as you can, though.
Even as a child, I’ve always focused on the end results of my actions as the all-important bottom line. I saved money and seldom, if ever, procrastinated. My goal was always to END UP in the best situation possible, regardless of what I had to endure to get there.
One day, the inexorable thought occurred to me. What is the REAL end result? Sure, I did all of my work ahead of time, I saved my money, and now I can buy that new toy I’ve been wanting and have time to play with it. But that’s not really the END, is it? What happens after I put away that shiny new toy to tackle the next set of tasks and challenges? What about after that? And after that? And after that? And after that?...
I am born, then I die, and regardless of what arbitrary events happen in between, the end is always the same. I am dead. Aside from my attempts to grasp at religion’s unsatisfying promises of immortality, I’m dead and gone forever, as ethereal as the fading memories of a life once lived. Even though everyone is born with this biological death sentence, it still seems so unfair. Imagine how a mortal would be pitied in a world with immortality as the accepted norm.
The conclusion is as inevitable as death itself. Life is worthless. My heart sank to the pit of my stomach as I first pondered this inescapable truth. I might invent the first perpetual motion machine and live to be a hundred, or I might contract a disease that causes my skin to peel off like orange rinds and fall to the floor in black, shriveled clumps and die at fifteen. What would it matter in the whole scheme of things? I’d still end up the same either way. When I reach the expiration date stamped on my forehead, father time unremorsefully discards me like disposable biological trash, and from then on, I’m worm food. If I did invent that perpetual motion machine, my name would live forever in trivial glory, but I would still be just as dead. Life is worthless.
I don’t feel quite as inconsolably miserable now as I did when I had these thoughts, but that’s not to say that I have resolved these issues. It’s more like I just force this subject out of my mind, because no good can come of contemplating it. It’s amazing how easy it is to smile and laugh even after realizing that you and your loved ones are all doomed. Psychological suppression is a wonderful tool.