Morbid
Written Oct 11, 2005
Why is it that everytime I'm leaving home it gives me a sense of fear that I'll never be able to come back? Death as a topic has always been taboo. People are afraid to think, write or even give the slightest mention about it. It may be because of the fear of the unknown or just simply because we're afraid to experience the state of dying.
Then why am I writing this now? It is because of the fear that I will never be able to come back to tell my tale. For a few days I will be away and I dont know what's going to happen. You may or may not hear from me after. But if you dont, at least you get to have a glimpse of what's inside the head of a dying man.
Right at this point, there are so many things running in my head. I'm thinking of the last words that I should utter for the world to witness. Something that would speak so much about me. Something immortal. Something timeless. Oh yeah, I can feel the pressure.
Looking back through my life, I can say I was fairly happy. I've met a lot of wonderful people, been to a lot of great places, supported by a very caring family, had a lot of great times with wonderful friends, and loved by a very sweet and gentle partner. But something's missing. Something that I may never find out about. My purpose in life.
It never fails to amaze me when people can talk highly about their purpose for existing. How were they able to figure out that that is their main objective in life? I mean I've lived for a little over a quarter of a century but I never got to discover mine. How do you find out about it? Is it just me or there are other millions of people out there who are having the same dilemma? I know it's sad to the point of being pitiful. But that is the truth. I dont know why I exist.
Some people live for their family. Some people for their career. Some for the good of humanity. While some even live just to make other people's lives miserable, but at least they got a purpose. At least they know that that is their purpose.
And so in my epitaph, this should be written: "I was born without knowing why. I died without knowing why I lived in the first place."
This is depressing. I should never write about death again. But then again, I may never get to have another chance to do it anyway.
Why is it that everytime I'm leaving home it gives me a sense of fear that I'll never be able to come back? Death as a topic has always been taboo. People are afraid to think, write or even give the slightest mention about it. It may be because of the fear of the unknown or just simply because we're afraid to experience the state of dying.
Then why am I writing this now? It is because of the fear that I will never be able to come back to tell my tale. For a few days I will be away and I dont know what's going to happen. You may or may not hear from me after. But if you dont, at least you get to have a glimpse of what's inside the head of a dying man.
Right at this point, there are so many things running in my head. I'm thinking of the last words that I should utter for the world to witness. Something that would speak so much about me. Something immortal. Something timeless. Oh yeah, I can feel the pressure.
Looking back through my life, I can say I was fairly happy. I've met a lot of wonderful people, been to a lot of great places, supported by a very caring family, had a lot of great times with wonderful friends, and loved by a very sweet and gentle partner. But something's missing. Something that I may never find out about. My purpose in life.
It never fails to amaze me when people can talk highly about their purpose for existing. How were they able to figure out that that is their main objective in life? I mean I've lived for a little over a quarter of a century but I never got to discover mine. How do you find out about it? Is it just me or there are other millions of people out there who are having the same dilemma? I know it's sad to the point of being pitiful. But that is the truth. I dont know why I exist.
Some people live for their family. Some people for their career. Some for the good of humanity. While some even live just to make other people's lives miserable, but at least they got a purpose. At least they know that that is their purpose.
And so in my epitaph, this should be written: "I was born without knowing why. I died without knowing why I lived in the first place."
This is depressing. I should never write about death again. But then again, I may never get to have another chance to do it anyway.
posted by Tristan at 3:31 AM
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