I don’t know why I fear death so much. I don’t know if someone like me exists who could relate to my saturnine disposition coupled with a strong urge to live. I shouldn’t be thinking of how death is making it’s way towards me, rather my mind should meander through the quotidian life, absorbing the variegated events. “Will the next puff of smoke seal my fate?” as I strike the match. “Will this whisky, as smooth as it can be, be the end of me?” as my throat revs up to the warmth of the liquid being gulped down. “Will a driver be busy on his phone with his Mistress, as he steers round the corner?” as I approach the last turning to my home, on my cycle.
I want to live, but what are these precarious intermittent sullen moments, sprinkled throughout my day? Am I overthinking? Am I? Maybe.
I used to be a fucking normal guy.
Human interaction does alleviate this, offering distractions, but again I’m not sure I like being surrounded by people, with their restive harangue. Loud and pompous.
I don’t know why when and what will summon the grim reaper, but I need to stop myself from suspiciously perceiving elements of my quotidian life, betraying me and my life.