The thing is…is that in many ways, I’m not sure what my views are. I know, it sounds like a cop-out, but it’s not (or, at least, it’s not meant to be). Having grown up in a very (if somewhat unconventional and non-sterotypical) Christian household, I suppose I should believe in some form of afterlife, be it Heaven, Hell, or some other nebulous non-corporeal nirvana — and, to a certain extent, I suppose I do (or at least want to, which isn’t at all the same thing). However, for whatever reason, unquestioning faith has never been one of my strong suits, and as there’s not exactly much in the way of evidence of anything post-mortem, there’s a large part of me that’s quite firmly convinced that this is all there is, and once it’s over, it’s over.
Hence, death tends to scare me. Or, rather, not so much death in general, or as a concept, or even when it relates to other people — but my death. I may not always have the greatest life in the world (while it’s been pretty good of late, I’ve certainly had my fair share of down times as well, along with everyone else), but the concept of not existing anymore, not being able to experience the highs as well as the lows, not being able to meet new and old friends, watch the world go by, capture pieces of it in pictures, find new songs to play over and over, and having everything I know of as me simply disappear…it gives me the willies. A little silly, I know (if nothing else, by definition, I wouldn’t be around to experience not being around, so obsessing and worrying over it doesn’t make much sense), but that’s where my brain gets stuck. I want to believe in something more than simply popping in and out of existence, but my stupid cynical brain can’t quite wrap itself around that. So I end up being not really in either one camp or the other, and instead just hoping that by the time I get close to dying myself, I’ll either have come to grips with one or the other, or that I’ll just be so blissfully senile that it won’t matter.
Cheery, huh?
On the bright side, it does explain — to a certain extent — why there’s no way that I could ever be suicidal, no matter how rough things get or how depressed I get. Firstly, there’s always something else coming along that’s usually going to be better than any rough patches I’m dealing with; secondly, there’s so much in the world I haven’t been able to see or experience yet, and I don’t want to miss out on that if I can help it; and thirdly, death is just to absolutely freaky for me to go there voluntarily.
So I don’t know. I kind of wish I could just go one way or the other, but I haven’t managed to do it yet. Most of the time I try not to think about it too much if I can avoid it. As with many things in life that I find unpleasant, I take the Scarlett O’Hara approach to managing unpleasant subjects. I’ll deal with them tomorrow.
Okay, not the best way to go. But…(shrug)…it’s where I am.
