While I was reading the news, a post loomed in sight “Scientist: We Will Find Intelligent Aliens By 2040”.

I couldn’t care less about aliens or science; however, the number 2014 suddenly made me short of breath. Then it hit me: 2040 will never have anything to do with me. Envisaging that day is like a severely ill man watching his own funeral ceremony: surreal and grotesque.

No one talks about death unless you are terminally ill or a philosopher. I believe this is the unspoken agreement of all humankind. I shed tears of heart-wrenching stories involving life-death situations: bereaved children, lost lovers, sacrificed heroes, etc. However, the thought of death with regard to me also felt like a puzzle that can never be solved. As a thriving young man, I was not the least threaten by it considering how far away death was.

Unfortunately, it inevitable pushed its way to my mind at times when I was on the verge of entering the third decade of my life. It’s not fear, but something far more complicated. Remember the last time you met a dreamy man on the subway?  You walk right past each other. How wonderful it would be had you become friends or lovers! Imagine, to your utmost surprise, he winked at you and asked you to leave your numbers. That night, you lie in bed, uncertain of what had happened. Is this really happening to me?

Right there, that’s what death feels like to me, only infinitely less charming. The thought of a future time and a world where I may never be a part of put me in a strange state of mind. It’s a long-waited reality check that the party of my life has an end and is coming. Afterwards, there will be no party for me, ever. It’s weird that, one minute I was complaining of not having much to do with the rest of the world, the next minute I was fearful for leaving everything behind.

Eventually, I will have to let go of everyone and everything despite of how involved I am. That’s the hardest part.