Last night I was lying in bed. It was probably, oh 2 am. I had been asleep for a bit, but then I woke to this thought: I will be dead.
It’s not a hypothetical, like attending one college or the other. It’s not a choice, like black or green tea. It’s not something I can avoid, like enlistment. I can’t hope for the best, or find an alternative, or make a change of plans.
No, one day—not all that long from now—I will be dead. Eternally.
During days, I’m fine. And, truly, most nights I’m fine, too. But when that thought creeps into my cranial lobe, it’s like Tito Santana holding on to my neck. It becomes tighter and tighter and tighter, and—in the blackness of my bedroom—I find myself overcome by an indescribable (though I’ll try right now to explain) sense of dread, bleakness, helplessness, terror. There is no thought that disturbs me more, and I would pay $100,000 for the blissful ignore enjoyed by my cockapoo, Norma.
Alas, we will both die.
And it will last forever.