What is it that scares you most?
Is it the infinitude of black that will consume you in your death?
Is it the realization of your utter dispensability in the larger scheme of things? The realization that the world will continue to spin without you, the universe- continue to hum, your friends and lovers continue to live, regardless of your absence? I understand this fear because I have seen it- precipitated on the pale foreheads of the dying, their clammy fingers holding on to yours, in a desperate attempt to grasp any last wisps of life.
But for inexplicable reasons, I was never afraid. Not for them, not for myself.
Ever since I was a child, my understanding of death far superseded my understanding of life, but I wish I had more of a grasp of the latter. And yet it eludes and I am left, always, with the scent of miasma looming over my waking self; with wet mud, warm roses and worms- more real in their decadence than the six senses of a blooming life.
I fear that the only real permanence in life is death; not love, not roses, not beauty. I fear that that there is too much beauty, and my body- too little to contain it. I fear that it will all escape me, like each syncopated breath that leaves my mouth, like grains of sand that slip through my fingers.
I fear that I will live a little less because I do not fear death at all.
So I do what I must- I run; not away, but alongside, so I can stay on par with what is already fleeting. Life. I fear life, because it is more magnanimous, more mysterious than death, and yet there is nothing within in that will not crumble to dust. There is nothing that will remain untouched, untainted- not even love- the very purpose of my existence. And like all other mortal facets, I find my memory fleeting, I find myself forgetting even this- my fondest memories that I must love, and hold on to my love until I am lying in my casket, as only providence for wet mud, warm roses and worms, only another crumb of dirt that you will tread upon, someday, in your fearful walk towards the end.
They begin the same- our life, our death- with a tunnel and a brute force, an intermittent dance of shadow and light that delivers you into a vacuous unknown.
So why is it that I was more scared to arrive than I will be to depart?