Nov 14

Death and Paris



I spent many years of my life fearing death.

It’s a weird way to be. I’d wake up in the morning and be depressed by my mortality. I’d stay up excessively late at night, trying to squeeze every last drop from conscious existence. I hated the inevitability of my demise; the thought that I would cease to be; that I would spend—literally—the remainder of eternity (a concept that doesn’t actually make sense) as nothingness. This would keep me up at night. I’d wake up, cold sweat, paralyzed by the knowledge that thought would not be thought; that breath would not be breath.

That I would die—and there was no way out of it.

Over the past few years, however, my thinking on this topic has changed drastically. Although I am in no rush to die (this is anything but a suicide letter, to be clear), I see the benefits of not being here. In short, we are more bad than good, and it’s becoming unbearable. I can’t stomach the way we destroy our planet, sans care. I can’t stomach the corporate greed; the indifference to suffering; the lengths some go to inflict emotional pain on others. I can’t stomach stupidity reigning; I can’t stomach people trusting ancient religious texts over logic and scientific fact; I can’t stomach evil men and women promoting evil thoughts to pliant minds.



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