I do not wish to pretend to be an expert on the secrets of life or the mysteries of death. Neither does providing answers to questions about the same a reason why I am writing this essay. The only reason is that I want to share a little bit of myself to anyone who could get the chance to read my work. I only want to share my thoughts, fears, anxieties, aspirations, and most of all, beliefs on life and death.

As I am writing these words, I am twenty-one years old. When I was a lot younger, I always wondered, why am I alive? Why am I conscious of the world and everything that is happening around me? Why is there life in me? As I continued with my musings, I saw myself in my mind growing in years – ten, twenty, forty, seventy, and later on lay in a coffin. Dead. Then I started to become afraid; become afraid of the fact that someday, I will die. I guess nothing has changed much. I still feel the same fear that I felt years ago. I am still afraid to die.

According to a German philosopher, Martin Heidegger, man is a being-towards-death. Death is the only irreplaceably reality in a man’s life. Every man will die sooner or later and no one can ever take his place on his deathbed. No matter what I do, I will die and nobody can die in my stead.

I am afraid to die because I do not know what will happen to me (or my soul) when I die. Will I find a very long and dark tunnel with a bright light shining far up its end? I do not know. No one really knows. Obviously, I am afraid of the unknown. And what is the unknown? For me, death is the unknown. Death is the realm of utmost mystery.

But why think about death when I am still young, alive, and full of vigor and vivacity? Why fear something that would only come, probably, a couple of score years later? Why not appreciate life instead? Why bother myself with something so vague, unpredictable and morbid? Why even think of death when I am at the prime of my youth and overflowing with great possibilities? Well, to say it bluntly, I cannot think and talk and write about death when I am already dead. So, is there any other better time to think and talk and write about death than now, when I am still alive? Actually, I think I’ve got a problem with life.