I’m forty-one, and I honestly have no idea how I came to be this age, where and how time has gone by.
Something happens when you cross the threshold into your forties. You feel — you know for sure – that you are a perishable being and that your non-existence in this world is approaching. You feel the changes in your body, and it won’t allow you to ignore them anymore.
It’s bizarre to think of your own death. — Can you even conceive your non-existence? Will the world still go on if you don’t exist anymore? And will it matter? Not to you.
Where will your world be, then? Will it be another one? Maybe just a dark space, somewhere in the nothingness. Will it be small, or lonely? Vast, perhaps? Full of sadness, or joy? A prison, or the ultimate freedom?
I’m reading a course in Miracles. It says that we — the essence of us — can not die because we are of God. Once God makes something, it’s a part of Him forever. And since He can’t die, nor can we.
It must be true. I hope it’s true. Otherwise, not much of this existence makes sense.