Personal Blogs

I guess that it was around about when I was fifty when I became concerned about death again. That would be my death, the end of me, the bit where I'm over. I don't give one shit about you.

I remember being a kid with issues re: death. I spent many a sleepless night of worry about things: vampires; burglars; death, the list was long. But as I grew, and began to self-medicate, I forgot about them. So why, again, now?

I've spent my entire life not being bored, with a board, and a mind, and me. I realize that at some point I'm going to be over. But I'm beginning to fret about that again.

Have all the things that I've done with my life been a runaway from my fear of my death?