I have become acutely aware of my own mortality. I've spent enough time visiting hospitals and nursing homes to last a lifetime; everything from old age to suicide, car crash, fatal illness, natural disaster, and freak accident has claimed, or at least threatened, the lives of my friends and family in the last few years alone. I realize we're all going to die someday. With all the news coverage anymore of killing sprees, bomb detonations, and threats of nuclear war, "someday" feels more and more like it's being measured in days, not decades.
One of the biggest question marks for me is what happens when you die? Aside from the obvious, of course. Maybe this life is all we get; maybe there's an afterlife; maybe I'm destined to be a chinchilla next time around. I'm still figuring out exactly what I believe, and even different sects of the same religion can't always agree about life after death. I'd like to at least be firmly rooted in my beliefs when it's time to go, so that if I'm wrong and am sentenced to hell / nothingness / Pittsburgh, it's not because the buzzer went off before I could respond to the Final Jeopardy answer of, "This is what happens after you die."
Presumably, unless the world is some sort of cosmic Truman Show that goes off the air when I, its star, kick the bucket, life will go on for you after I die. Part of the reason I write so much—aside from the fact that I enjoy writing—is because it's a tangible legacy for those who care about me. Barring a global catastrophe or a drastic shift in data retention policies and capabilities across the Internet and home computing, I've got blog posts and journal entries that, collectively, tell or hint at the story of my life from at least as far back as the turn of the century—not to mention all those videos, photo albums, and all that poetry I wrote in high school. My hypothetical children and grandchildren won't ever have to wonder what I was like, if I expire before they get to know me. And there's more than enough material here for future generations to create a lifelike holographic AI of me, should future generations ever be so foolish.
I won't be here forever, but my life doesn't have to end with my death. As long as someone out there has a memory of me, a memento, even a stupid habit they picked up from me, I'll never truly be gone. Order a steak and ask the waitress for a Roy Rogers. Sit down with a homemade pizza and watch an episode of Star Trek. Spend an afternoon playing Mega Man or Chrono Trigger. Sing along to "Weird Al." Wear a fez on Christmas morning. I'm as good as there with you.
And, just in case, be nice to chinchillas.
One of the biggest question marks for me is what happens when you die? Aside from the obvious, of course. Maybe this life is all we get; maybe there's an afterlife; maybe I'm destined to be a chinchilla next time around. I'm still figuring out exactly what I believe, and even different sects of the same religion can't always agree about life after death. I'd like to at least be firmly rooted in my beliefs when it's time to go, so that if I'm wrong and am sentenced to hell / nothingness / Pittsburgh, it's not because the buzzer went off before I could respond to the Final Jeopardy answer of, "This is what happens after you die."
Presumably, unless the world is some sort of cosmic Truman Show that goes off the air when I, its star, kick the bucket, life will go on for you after I die. Part of the reason I write so much—aside from the fact that I enjoy writing—is because it's a tangible legacy for those who care about me. Barring a global catastrophe or a drastic shift in data retention policies and capabilities across the Internet and home computing, I've got blog posts and journal entries that, collectively, tell or hint at the story of my life from at least as far back as the turn of the century—not to mention all those videos, photo albums, and all that poetry I wrote in high school. My hypothetical children and grandchildren won't ever have to wonder what I was like, if I expire before they get to know me. And there's more than enough material here for future generations to create a lifelike holographic AI of me, should future generations ever be so foolish.
I won't be here forever, but my life doesn't have to end with my death. As long as someone out there has a memory of me, a memento, even a stupid habit they picked up from me, I'll never truly be gone. Order a steak and ask the waitress for a Roy Rogers. Sit down with a homemade pizza and watch an episode of Star Trek. Spend an afternoon playing Mega Man or Chrono Trigger. Sing along to "Weird Al." Wear a fez on Christmas morning. I'm as good as there with you.
And, just in case, be nice to chinchillas.
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