“The most merciful thing in the world, I think, is the inability of the human mind to correlate all its contents. We live on a placid island of ignorance in the midst of black seas of infinity, and it was not meant that we should voyage far.” – HP Lovecraft
“It’s a popular fact that 90 percent of the brain is not used and, like most popular facts, it is wrong. . . . It is used. One of its functions is to make the miraculous seem ordinary, to turn the unusual into the usual. Otherwise, human beings, faced with the daily wondrousness of everything, would go around wearing a stupid grin, saying “Wow,” a lot. Part of the brain exists to stop this from happening.” – Terry Pratchett
I cannot comprehend my own mortality. I know, I absolutely know that one day I will cease to be. I also know that that might be sooner than I would like. It very easily could be this summer and I might not break even as Kenny Rogers did, there is a good chance that with my lungs it’s going to be painful and not at all pretty.
I have everything prepared, funeral plans, will, everything. But the comprehension that I will die, should come with something more than organisation? A sense of disappointment that I have not left the world better than I found it?
I feel, empty about my likely death.
I feel like I am not ceonceiving my mortality properly, like I cannot get a handle on it, as if it’s the thought equivalent of some sort of fish I’m trying to grab in both hands underwater.
I’m not happy about it, or revelling in the idea of becoming nothing, but I am not sad, or even smart enough to be scared. I am just, knowing it’s coming, but still hoping it won’t.
I don’t know, I feel like this sort of denial is childish somehow.