Weekly Musings 116
Welcome to this edition of Weekly Musings, where each week I share some thoughts about what's caught my interest in the last seven days.
This time 'round, to commemorate my turning 54 a little idle speculation. About how I'll eventually meet my end. Don't worry, it's not as gruesome or morbid as it sounds.
With that out of the way, let's get to this week's musing.
On How I Might Die
You've probably heard the old saying about death and taxes being the only certainties in life. Of the two, most of us only accept the inevitability of taxes. As for death, whether we acknowledge it or not most of us want to live forever. Or, at least, as long as we can.
If you're one of the people who embraces the certainty of your days coming to an end, you probably won't think your passing until it's time to go. And, chances are, you'll try to put up a fight to keep a certain bony, scythe-swinging bastard at bay for as long as possible.
I'm different. I do think about my own demise. Don't get me wrong: doing myself in has never been an option. Never have I pondered finding quick and creative ways to shuffle off this mortal coil.
Sure, the thought of people in my life dying is troubling but I'm not fazed by my eventual encounter with the Reaper. Having come close to dying a couple of times, I can't say I'm too afraid of meeting my end.
I'm 54 years old and, am told, still have a few decades ahead of me. A thought that doesn't thrill my many enemies. I'm also told that my obsession with this gruesome subject is unhealthy.
That's where people get it wrong. It's not an obsession. It's not even a fascination. It's more of a curiosity. There's a part of me that yearns to know the future. My future. To know how I'll meet my end. To know what's going to lead up to that icy hand putting a fatal grip on my shoulder. And that's what provides the spark for the ramblings in this week's musing.
Here are a few ways in which I might die:
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