People don’t fear death anywhere near so much as they are afraid of being forgotten. It is all part of a strange game we play with in which a symbolic life and the complex narratives of abstraction we build around living comes to envelop and invalidate the concrete facts upon which that fragile experience so profoundly depends. From inside a cognitive and cultural grammar of symbolic self-representation and complex tautological inconsequence we can easily deceive ourselves into believing almost anything and people most certainly (and serially) do precisely this.
I really don’t care if I am forgotten because only a fool would ever believe that we do anything other than eventually fade from the memory of a world that only truly seeks continuity and persistence without conscience or meaning. No amount of wealth or worldly influence will or ever could change this fact. In many ways I already feel forgotten and as though a living ghost in my own life, the dawning presence of my own absence in this world brings a certain degree of melancholy freedom. I only write to record a memory and moment that acquires significance in inverse proportionality to its utter transience and insubstantiality in all cosmic time.
We all do matter in this world, just not as much as (or in the essential and affective ways that) we think we do. I’m simply embracing the void of personal non-existence and mortal dissolution a little earlier than most. How can a mind live freely in any other way? There are far too many selfish and cruel fools for any other rational response to this strange and confused, chaotic little world we live in.