When I was younger, death felt more immediate.
These past few months (maybe weeks), I keep getting these sudden déjà vu moments, in which I am paralyzed with the memory of a panic attack, or the realization that I was so sure I was going to die when I was younger.
I’ve changed too much since then for the exact circumstances to be clear, but I now know how much I really thoroughly pondered death, and experienced the sudden existential agony that sent my innards writhing and left me frozen with an all-consuming terror that what brief thing that was I would cease to exist.
That fear is ineffable, the intensity of that knowing how fragile I was could split through my skin. Over the years, I’ve lost that agony, and felt almost invincible. Armored.
I don’t know if I miss that raw fear. It might make me reflect more; or it might confine me to my own room; or it might send me to crazed adrenaline-seeking behavior to seal up the fractures breaking through my fundamental basis.
The cause of this loss of touch is distraction. I found ways to evade the terror, found ways to make life easier.
Perhaps it would be better to break. To acknowledge what I used to know.
Maybe life would seem more real.
Disclaimer: Yes, the horrendous grammatical monster near the top was intentional. It felt right. I don’t oft break such rules, but it felt right.
Also, I recognize that there are half a million aspects to thinking about death. This just is relevant to me right now, as I type this.