All things considered, I’m handling my death well.
No kicking, crying, or screaming. No anything, really. There’s simply a vast expanse of nothing, as I always suspected.
anythingMy untimely demise is easier to accept than I imagined it would be. In the great hereafter, the place beyond, there is no sensation. My pain is gone. There’s no emotional sensation either, so I can’t feel any specific way about the absence of pain. I can’t be relieved that my suffering has ended; I can’t mourn the death of my future, my potential, my dreams—all the life I could have lived, had I not done what I did.
This isn’t really nothing, though, is it? I am still, inexplicably, capable of conscious thought. It barely feels conscious, yet here they are: words and ideas that register within me on a primal le
