On Death.
All my life, I’ve wondered about death. It’s probably one of the most controversial topics that have caused schisms among philosophers and clerics. (Legend has it that Plato called Socrates unfortunate on this very issue. Socrates didn’t take that lightly). (Maybe I made that up. But you get the gist). Probably most talked about after love. There are as many beliefs about death as there are religions and cultures in the world.
I first wondered about death when I was 8, when a family friend was murdered by cultists at his university. I didn’t eat all day. (Ate the second day though. I wasn’t trying to join him). What does it really mean to die? What happens at the point of death? How does a final breath feel? Do you see the Grim Reaper swipe his scythe at you, harvesting your soul like rice in one fell swoop, with his macabre smile grinning at your death, and his victory?
What runs through your mind at that moment your soul makes a final attempt to stay in your body but fails? Do you get a final God’s eye view of your body as your spirit levitates?
What does it mean to die?
When a person dies, friends and acquaintances are thrown into relentless mourning, both real and feigned. Why? Isn’t it ultimately in our selfish interest we mourn? We only cry because we’ve lost that persons intrinsic value; financial, when the deceased is a breadwinner, emotional when it’s a lover/spouse, (could also be sexual if it’s knackbuddy. Oh death, where is thy sting?). We don’t grieve because they’ve lost us. Why would we, anyway?
How do we know what awaits us in the great beyond?
What does it mean to die?
Faith plays a major role in our perspective of the afterlife, or lack thereof. Heaven, hell, reincarnation are the most recurring themes.
Major views on the hereafter stem from religion, esoterism and metaphysics.
Perhaps, upon death, I’ll be reincarnated into a llama in Peru, slowly nibbling away on blades of grass, with not a care in the world.
Or worse, I become hummus for cotton that’ll be picked only to be processed into fabric to be bought by some contractor who in turn sells to an underwear company and I’m made into panties for an overweight person who suffers from hyperhidrosis…
I digress.
I’m afraid this piece poses a lot of questions and no answers. For all we know, our dead friends, once they become stiffies have mysteriously appeared on a sunny beach with a lot bikini-clad women, with a piñacolada in one hand and a nubile peng ting in another.
What does it mean to die?
Dying, perhaps ultimately means becoming nothing. Like a dreamless sleep, but this time, forever, floating around in an empty void, unseeing, unfeeling.
Perhaps what we fear the most, is the fact
There’s a lot of uncertainty in death. But a chance of relief and respite from this suffering sounds a lot better to me than trudging on in this cold and bitter world.
See that tiny little heart button below? Its begging you to tap it. Put it out of its misery.
