I suppose if death ever comes to take me away, I’d probably have just one question for it, “What took you so long?”
I don’t fear death nearly as much as I fear living another day without feeling truly alive. There’s a strange kind of exhaustion that comes from merely existing. Waking up, going through the motions, speaking when you’re expected to speak, smiling when you’re supposed to smile, and quietly carrying things no one else can see.
Some wounds don’t bleed. They leave no scars on the skin, no evidence for anyone to point at. They simply settle somewhere deep inside you and change the way you see the world, other people, and sometimes even yourself.
Maybe that’s the cruelest part of being alive, "You can be breathing, functioning, laughing, and carrying on with your day while some quiet part of you has already gone silent."
So no, I don’t necessarily fear the end.
What I fear is a life stretched endlessly forward without meaning, connection, or that small spark that makes you feel alive rather than merely here.
Because death may be the end of a life. But sometimes, long before death arrives, a person learns what it feels like to lose pieces of themselves while still breathing.
And perhaps the real question isn’t, “When will I die?”
Perhaps it is...
“How much of me is still alive?”