A guy that I knew from my childhood died on Friday.
We were not close. He was the older brother of my friend and two years older than me. When you’re six, two years is a canyon, practically adulthood.
When you’re forty-one, it’s a crack in the sidewalk.
I lost contact with my friend about twenty-five years ago, but I heard about the death through the grapevine. If I wasn’t for the hive mind of the internet, I would’ve never known.
Still, I sad for the family, but I’m also self-centered. “Oh my god, how did he die? Can this happen to me? I don’t want to die young, and he was my age! Ahhh! *starts doing cardio*
I don’t think I’m abnormal in this way. People are naturally self-centered. Usually, the first thing anyone asks after someone dies is “how did they die?”
Do people want to be immortal? I don’t, but I don’t want to die either, at least not for another forty years. In The Watchmage of Old New York (Just 99 cents for the Kindle copy or free with KU), the main character does not age, and he constantly suffers for it. He’s not quite part of society, and he grieves for all the loved ones that he had to watch die.
As someone that lost their fiance five years ago, I can tell you that the only thing more fearful than death is a loved one’s death.
So I grieve for the deceased and his family, but I can’t help grieving for myself. I know that it’s weakness, but part of strength is admitting your weaknesses. Shine a light on your darkness. Be self-aware.
But you can still fear the Reaper.