Death. What is death? Where is it? What happens? What does it feel like? That is my question. What does death feel like. Before I started writing this post, I was going to write some confessions, not anything you’d say to a priest, but deep ones, that only you tell yourself. Or in my case, convince yourself otherwise.
I’ve always wanted to know what death feels like.
Is that strange? Almost probably. And if you didn’t think it was weird, well, you’d be just as strange as me. And that’s not a pretty compliment. Back to the point: death. I don’t want to die. I mean, if I knew I was going to die, the depression that would wash over me, would brake me down before death caught up. I know you’re probably thinking, right, so she wants to feel what death is like. What a phyco. And you’re right. This is a confession to myself, let alone you. I don’t want to believe that I want to know what it’s like. Because believing that, I’ll know there’s something wrong with me- there is nothing wrong with me.
What’s wrong with being curious? Nothing.
What’s wrong with me?