This morning thoughts of my own mortality came to mind. Probably because my wife and I have been discussing retirement and that’s a subject that can only be avoided for so long. They were nothing particularly dark or depressing. Just thoughts. I wonder sometimes how and when. Hope it’s quick. Hope it’s not too soon.
Then I think about someone having to go through my stuff and dispose of it in whatever way. Is there anything they’ll find that would be embarrassing? (Would I even be embarrassed if I was dead?) Anything I need to get rid of so no one ever knows? Anything that would make them say, “I had no idea!” Probably not. My life hasn’t exactly been one of drama and intrigue.
I suspect the one thing that might make someone wonder about me is if they read through my journals. All the self-questioning, the doubts, the insights, the complaints, the realizations. They’d probably wonder how I functioned day to day with all that stuff going through my mind. I wonder sometimes how I function with all the stuff that goes through my mind. I guess that’s why I journal every day—and have for many, many years. It’s my therapy. My outlet for things internal and external. Once I question something, look at it closely, shine a spotlight on it, it often shows itself to be much smaller than it was when I was bouncing it around in my head.
That includes my mortality. I made a few observations about it in my journal this morning, wrote down a few thoughts, then went on to other things. No one gets out of here alive. While I’m still here, I’ll make the best of it.