Of all the things I might feel threatened with mortality is the least effective. Death is after all our constant companion existence, so is but the turning of the final page of a novel of indeterminate length. A circumstance any sensible individual should have considered most so their adult life.
People deal with this undeniable truth in a myriad of fashions, many simply fleeing the inevitable with almost shameful neglect, preferring ignorance to any degree of preparedness. Quite humorously there is so guaranteed solace, no imaginary scenario alleviates the sudden panic of fruition, whether predisposition, religious indoctrination, philosophic stabilization, in the extremity we all shy from nonentity.
Such is how the pattern of mankind’s singularly specific relationship with reality has been formulated from inception, a glorious seemingly endless blooming, till a sudden and immediate cessation. Acceptance or denial make no odds, the cards are dealt at birth, unavoidably, far better to accept a not quite perfectly winning hand.