I fear death less, than the moment of realisation, when it is all too apparent, that my mind, nay, my memory becomes nothing but an empty white canvas.
Family, friends, love, everything I hold dear, anything I hold of regard, even the matters I loathe – all of it fading into obscurity, a haze that the mind struggles to remember once existed.
Truly, death would be sweet release, compared with the agony of living, and not remembering. The monotony of existence, without experience.
Would there even be remembered pain, if I am but a fleshly automaton, doomed to repeat the same motions incessantly, without the volition to better the self?
As that day creeps ever closer, I can do nothing but live my days out the best I can. To be true to the self, to live without regrets. To roll with every punch, to laugh at every unexpected blessing, to be thankful, and bask in the mundane ordinariness that a simple, uninterrupted routine brings.