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death

. . . worries me greatly. It is a genuinely frightening concept, that of death. Of The End.

But not my death, no. Not my End. Not about where I’m going after I die (if anywhere). Not about how it’ll feel to have my life taken away, for this soul to be pulled from this body. No, that doesn’t really bother me. I fear and worry in/about life-threatening situations, of course—only the mentally ill wouldn’t—but not the happening of my death itself.

What does worry me, however, is the prospect of leaving people behind to grieve and mourn the passing of this sad soul. Family, friends, loved ones, the people who I’d like to think care about me, to some extent. Every time I think about the prospect of dying that fear, that anxiety of leaving people behind is what first comes to mind. And it fills me with a profound sense of sadness. Getting left behind is never fun, and neither is leaving people behind.

And there’s, of course, the prospect of me being the one left behind, of people leaving me to grieve and mourn their passing. It’s only ever happened to me once, and while it wasn’t particularly emotionally draining, it wasn’t particularly fun either. I’m sure I’ll be experiencing this again soon, what with so many elder members of my extended family seemingly just waiting for their turn. Tengah tunggu masa, as one would say in Bahasa.

After that it’ll be the turn of my parents, my uncles and my aunts. And, I fear, that is when things will begin to get far more emotionally affecting.

Unless I somehow manage to die before all of them, that is.

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