A fellow blogger wrote a post two days ago about death. I’ve been thinking about it all day.

I’ve also written about this before..

I too have morbid thoughts, far too frequently. I’m constantly wondering if I will be one of these people who will die at a criminally young age. I look around me & wonder if I’ll make it to my late twenties, my mid forties.. I’m completely freaking out about my flight back to Scotland already – this has been the norm for almost a year now, but that doesn’t make it any easier, especially after reading about the flight from London to Australia that blew a hole the size of a small car an hour into the flight & had to emergency land…. Fuck, it scares the shit out of me. Not to mention I’m constantly watching the people who are boarding said flight(s).

I guess it’s just so much more important to me that I get back to Bear you know? I have to live, I have to live to be with him.

When I was at my worst – ah the days of Citalopram – I didn’t give anything like this a second thought. But now that I’m free from medication, no longer in a deep depression.. & of course, now that I’m in a happy relationship with a man I plan to marry nearly everywhere I go I’m thinking, what if. I look at the man walking on the sidewalk towards me & think, What if.

It’s almost like, with every situation I find myself in, I fantasize about what could happen. I’m talking from falling down the stairs, slipping in the shower.. to boarding the wrong flight on the wrong day.

It goes as far as the past three times Bear & I have gone to the cinema & people have come in late, I’ve had flashes of violence & murder.

I’m on the donor list, but I’m beginning to wonder if I’ve made the right choice.. I mean, it’s stupid.. I’m dead right? But I catch myself wondering if I might be needing those essential parts. I don’t want to be buried, I want to be cremated.. but somehow I tell myself that only one of those if the right choice.

It’s so hard to explain what the hell I mean, I’m pretty sure this isn’t making any sense at all but seriously, I’m obviously mental.. I mean I’m dead, who cares right?

I’m feeling almost obsessed by the choices I make each day. It’s like driving past a serious accident & thinking… fuck, If I’d left the house 3 minutes earlier… you know? I can no longer even be comfortable in a vehicle.. even at a stand still.

Then I start thinking, well, I have to die one day.. Is it going to be by my own hand? Someone elses? Will it be painful? Sudden? Slow?

What about my funeral? Where would it be? Who would be there? Oh hell I’ve lost the plot.

Tell you what, I’ll let you pay for it if you promise it won’t be religious. How-sat sound?