Death and Meaning.

Last night, I’d given up work and plopped into bed with a sigh, and started to drift off to sleep.

Suddenly, I was wide awake, thinking “I’m going to die. One day, unavoidably, I’ll be living my final moment. The seconds before nothingness will tick away, and then I’ll die. I might be peaceful, I might be senile, I might be in pain… It could be tomorrow or fifty years from now… but there is no getting out of it. ”
All I could feel was blind panic.

Bit morbid for a Sunday night, if I do say so myself. Is that what a panic attack feels like? Does this happen to other people?

Thanks, brain!

Anyway, it passed in about 15 minutes, and I recovered with an episode of Modern Family and a liter of milky sweet tea.

There are lots of things I want to do before those last few seconds: Continue my education, travel (Europe! Africa! Australia! America!!) , fall in love again (as impossible as that seems), start a family…. to name some of the grander, long term goals.

The above is all lovely to imagine… but, then, I’ll still die. Which, at the moment, seems like a nice idea – it sounds restful. Unfortunately that’s just my imagination, because the cessation of existence can’t be anything at all.

There isn’t much point on dwelling on the idea of death, once it’s stopped being a cause of random late-night panic, especially if it’s inevitable.
Rather, I need to pull myself towards myself, and get the fuck on with living. Because when your religion is reality and logic, the only greater meaning in life is what you create for yourself, and I don’t have much right now.

TMTA… So that I can do the same thing I do every Easter.

Every Easter I pack up shop and head down to the coast for a holiday. Or at least, I try to.

I have friends down here, and it’s been lovely to sit and enjoy delicious wine, indulgent food and forget about all the crazy I’ve left at home. And then create new crazy, because there is SOMETHING about the low altitude that is giving me some bastard hangovers!

As we all know, having a mean hangover is an excellent excuse to freely consume whatever will ease your suffering the fastest, even if it’s weird. I know this is a real thing, because the Bridget Jones books told me so, and thus this morning I have eaten (for breakfast):

– Some grapes
– Two hot-crossed buns (Easter food!)
– Chocolate eggs (Easter food, again!)
– A plain slice of toast
– Ten thousand cups of tea
– A spoonful of interesting looking cough-syrup (it was mulberry flavour!)
– Custard

All of this was eaten very furtively, because I’m a guest in someone’s house, and can’t act like the fucking locust I usually am.

I’m assuming that once I achieve my bald-eagle-freedom-dream, I’ll head to American wine country, in California. I’ve heard that it’s not the best wine (compared to the Mediterranean, New Zealand or Cape Town).
Psshh, I don’t believe the snobby hearsay.
Plus, I’ve watched James May drunkenly stagger all over that place, and it looked amazing!
Come to think of it, so did James May… mmmm. Don’t ask.

 

I love you, Drunk Uncle!

I love you, Drunk Uncle!