Last night I got word from my friend Camie (college roommate) that her father-in-law had passed away on Friday. She was there with him along with the rest of his family when he died. He had been sick for several years, but of course that doesn't make things less difficult.
I can only imagine this was the base for my "situation" last night. I was in bed trying to fall asleep when I ran my tongue over my one crooked tooth. I thought, hm. I wonder if it's shifted. I wonder what it'll be like when I'm 80.
Okay, so no biggie, right? Normally, totally cool. However, in the dead of night those thoughts manifest themselves into epic levels of morbid thought. I started to cry, thinking simply, "I don't ever want to die." Because I don't want to lose my memories. I can't imagine a world in which I--my stuff, my thoughts, my memories--don't exist. So then I start thinking, what does any of it matter? If we lose our memories when we die, which we most certainly do, then why bother to create them? What's the ultimate difference between someone who dies at birth and someone who dies at age 100? Sure, you impact other people, but those people die too and then you become pointless all over again.
I became so absolutely horrified by my own existence, and the idea that it will someday cease, that I was absolutely beside myself. I think it's because I imagine that when we die we go back to how we were before we were born, and there are no memories associated with that. And this idea that I hear about "well, you'll be dead, you won't care" is not appeasing--I *want* to care. I want to always care.
So please, someone, explain this to me. Why are we here? If it's all a matter of just helping ourselves become better, to help others be better, to make life fun and good for however long we're here but then it all goes away forever, then why does it matter if you're successful or a failure? Rich or poor? If your life is amazing or miserable?
Okay...I'm going back to Ghostbusters. This is all too much thought for a Sunday afternoon.