The most common lamentation of the aged is that time has passed one by. Seldom comes the recognition that oneself is ipso facto a manifestation of that time, its movement, and ultimately its terminus. The great fear of death is not that the self is dying, it is that as one dies, one loses grip of everything entire—in so many words, to the dying one, the death of the self is the simultaneous annihilation of everything else in existence, extending forward into the future forever to remain unknown and the history that memory will withdraw its hand from. To murmur gently with the heart of this question, the ultimate question within the only question that is posed towards the living, why should the living loathe to leave life, and its energetic modus operandi?
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