Received an interesting comment from a reader, RE: my Death post …
It is interesting that you keep writing about your fears, yet seem reluctant to explore what this might mean. Why do you think that is?
I love this stuff. First, I have spent a great deal exploring the meaning of my fears, yet my conclusionâ€”unhappily, I must admitâ€”is there isn’t all that much meaning. I wish I were searching for Jesus or trying to grasp faith or closing in on some secret journey of life’s inner walls. Yet the truth is, I fear death because I don’t aspire to die, yet I know it is inevitable. In fact, I sort of think the better question is why more people don’t directly deal with mortality. They either push it off, ignore it or turn to religion to ease the fears of nothingness. I know few people (Scott Capro, my college roommate, the notable exception) who are truly willing to confront death without weakly turning to talk of an afterlife as some sort of comfort pillow. Maybe there is an afterlife, maybe there isn’t. However, it seems no more likely than aliens, reincarnation or Bigfoot.
So why do I fail to explore, in writing, what my fear of death means? Because I believe I know what it means: That I’m a hard-core, pain-inflicting realist.