Necrophobia is the fear of death itself. This is not to be confused with necrophilia, a mistake I made because I’m incredibly tired. Not that I’m going to go on and on about it. Although, interestingly, necrophilia was only made illegal here in the UK in 2003. The same Act that legalized gay group sex. And in 2004, the death penalty became illegal. Although it is worth pointing out that if we ever leave the European Union, from what I can deduce, that law is revoked. We’re very slow on these sorts of things. Where was I? Ah, yes…
I think we all have a touch of necrophobia. We don’t like to think of the end. It kind of hits us like a sledgehammer. Unless a sledgehammer is somehow involved in our demise then replace that simile because it’ll be in really poor taste. There is an argument that fear of death is a survival instinct, like knowing when the missus is within 100 yards of the front door, an instinct all men have, or, to balance this out, like knowing when the fella has just peed all over the bathroom ceiling. The fear of death stops us doing stupid things. “Hey, Tarquin, let’s run across this busy road, dude!” “No, I’ll be killed”. Good point. Tarquin would be killed. People do call their children Tarquin, right? I’m not modern. I don’t know what people name their children these days.
Of course, we become wiser as we become older. We don’t take risks. We develop beliefs and, if not in a religion, then in our own convictions. We live life by our own set of rules. I am religious, a Roman Catholic. I have the afterlife to comfort me. That’s what the Bible says. Well, it’s what it teaches. I’m sure I’m not the first Catholic to admit that it actually offers me no comfort whatsoever. But don’t tell the Monsignor. He’s a real old-fashioned priest. He used to slap me on the back of the head. Like Gibbs does to Tony in NCIS.
The thought of not existing is one that I cannot grasp. It terrifies me. I don’t really have anyone to talk to. No friends or belle. I don’t have a problem with that life but you are left with your thoughts and one can struggle to control one’s thoughts. They do wander and it can keep you up at night. I am afraid of death. All we can do between now and the end is live each day like it means something.
But don’t live each day like it’s your last. That’s a terrible phrase. You’d spend the entire day crying and screaming, “WHY! I HAD SO MUCH TO LIVE FOR! WHY ME! WHY! WHY! WHY! NOOOO!” At that point, you’d probably rip your shirt, fall to your knees and scream at the sky. And then curl up in a pathetic ball on your shag pile rug.
That’s what I’d do. Might just be me, though.
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Please feel free check out the latest posts from my other two blogs:
The Indelible Life of Me
Hark Around The Words