On the glue that holds us together and the chemistry between us.
Everyone always talks about the fear of death. Everyone writes about it and sings about it and paints about it and there's always a sympathetic understanding about it in some sort of way. The idea that your survival instinct is no match for something so big, but no matter who you are and no matter what your situation -- misanthrope, suicidal, about to jump off a building or accidentally overdosing or cancer rotted your insides out -- every single one of your little cells conspires to keep your body from giving up that ghost and you either freak the fuck out or you're paralyzed and you begrudgingly acquiesce.
Like going out with a scream and then a whimper, I guess.
There's a reason why it's such a cliché. Aside from love, it's the one thing everyone always wants to talk about. It gets so old, it's boring, but it's the one thing everyone can agree on: Dying sucks.
Then there's always someone saying you can't really understand that fear until you've experienced it yourself. And not just in an existential "Who am I oh well we'll all be dead someday" sort of way. I mean a real, tangible, looming sense of immediately impending doom that starts as it means to go on. A terror unlike anything you ever imagined you'd ever experience and it's not about to let up anytime soon. That feeling that, Wow, you're about to die and so this is what it feels like and guess what? It's not fascinating or uterine or serene after all. It's all alarms and red alerts and the short end of this mortal coil is barreling towards you like a big black hole and you're exquisitely helpless. Who else is going to keep your soul from leaking out your nostrils? God? No, maybe we're reverting. Mom? She cut that cord the first chance she got, and now it's all you, baby. In the end, you're completely alone with your mortality, and that's the scariest part of all.
Most probably this became about me somewhere towards the end there. Sorry bout that. It's cool, I'm still kicking.
Like going out with a scream and then a whimper, I guess.
There's a reason why it's such a cliché. Aside from love, it's the one thing everyone always wants to talk about. It gets so old, it's boring, but it's the one thing everyone can agree on: Dying sucks.
Then there's always someone saying you can't really understand that fear until you've experienced it yourself. And not just in an existential "Who am I oh well we'll all be dead someday" sort of way. I mean a real, tangible, looming sense of immediately impending doom that starts as it means to go on. A terror unlike anything you ever imagined you'd ever experience and it's not about to let up anytime soon. That feeling that, Wow, you're about to die and so this is what it feels like and guess what? It's not fascinating or uterine or serene after all. It's all alarms and red alerts and the short end of this mortal coil is barreling towards you like a big black hole and you're exquisitely helpless. Who else is going to keep your soul from leaking out your nostrils? God? No, maybe we're reverting. Mom? She cut that cord the first chance she got, and now it's all you, baby. In the end, you're completely alone with your mortality, and that's the scariest part of all.
Most probably this became about me somewhere towards the end there. Sorry bout that. It's cool, I'm still kicking.