I will be dead

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Last night I went to bed at about 1 o’clock.

I plopped down, put my head on the pillow, then thought, “One day I’ll be dead.”

The sentence would not evacuate my mind.

“One day I’ll be dead.”

“One day I’ll be dead.”

“One day I’ll be dead.”

“One day I’ll be dead.”

It’s a jarring thing. Because it lacks the hypothetical factor of 99.9 percent of our pondering. “Will I swim tomorrow?”—hypothetical. “I hope I did well in math”—hypothetical. “I can’t wait for the new episode of ‘This is Us'”—hypothetical. Most things might happen, might not happen. And, either way, they don’t result in a permanence.

Death, on the other hand, is eternal nothingness. A factual permanence that will overtake us all, whether we like it or not.

When that thought enters my mind, and sticks there, I sit up, lost for breath, a wave of hopelessness overtaking me.

Then I find something hypothetical to consider.

And I fall asleep.

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