Day Twenty-Six

Your fears

Death. That basically sums it up. I could nuance that statement—I fear dying young, in pain, alone—but in the end, the distinctions point to the same result: oblivion. Termination of linear existence. Poof.

It's not a fear of being forgotten; enough time passes and everyone's forgotten. (With a few exceptions, but even in those cases, it's not the man or woman who's remembered but the accomplishment connected to a name. Shakespeare isn't really remembered as a person, is he? Do you know anyone who can say, "Yeah, that William, he was a nice guy"?)

How do we know, in the grand scheme, that our having lived matters? And if in five billion years the sun swells into a red giant and consumes the world, did the existence of anything serve a purpose?

I fear my death, your death, the death of everyone I know—I fear that none of it matters.

This is why I lose sleep. Also, why I write science fiction.