The first time I actually realized, or at least put together that I was going to die was on my visit to my step fathers great grandmothers house (she was being taken care of by his mother at the time). I watched that woman eat a slice of tomato like it was something to do, and it scared the shit out of me (something so benign being such a challenge). My sister didn’t give a shit (she was like 5) but I knew, I could empathize. The instant we got to the hotel that night I couldn’t sleep, cause it was still in my head: “one day, that will be me; if I’m graced by time like this woman was, graced to die in a bed” I cried over that shit. The fear of death has never hit me as hard as it did then, cause now I just tell my self “bah, that was when I was younger. Of course it scared me, the thought of being so close to dead/not being/not existing”.
I didn’t want to “not exist” then.
I’ve kinda built up this mantra of “I’ll worry about it when it comes”
"I’m not going to worry about it now, cause it’s guna happen anyways"
now a new fear has take it’s place. The fear of my body goin before my mind. Trapped in the cage so to speak.
The moment that a daily task becomes to hard, or the tomato becomes to much of a challenge, I pray that whatever god I haven’t been praying to finds mercy and just obliterates me right then.
cause the idea of living, but not doing sounds like hell.