Foxholes, Part II

But what if I were in that foxhole?

Death is like sleep (a really good sleep), I would try to tell myself. It’s like before being born, which wasn’t such a bad time. And, drifting away on morphine, I might even think my parents were welcoming me, or see a wise person up in the corner.

An extra bonus would be if something beyond our conception happens next – like maybe we become the Game Creators, manipulating all the little Sims down below. Or we reincarnate – become a better person, or better still, a bird.

The real problem for me would be the people I left behind. This would be my terminal anxiety. Grieving for someone is much worse, for me, than being dead. I have always told Chip I’d rather die first, because of this (he’d rather go on living, of course).

How to deal with this? Maybe through that neglected category I called Life’s Purpose . . .

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