For a long time I have feared dying, but not only the fact itself, rather what comes after. The eternal question leaps to my mind thousands of times a day: what will there be after death? As a Catholic I am supposed to be, I must keep the theory — or rather the fact — that my soul will rise to the heavens or, in its apocalyptic default, descend into the boiling and soulless hell. My doubts stalk me: will a hell or a heaven really exist? In my little wandering through this world, in the memories that now seem part of a short film in which I am the lead actor, in those so-called memories, thousands of theories leap before my eyes about what will happen to me — rather to my individual being — at the moment of dying.
For example, the other day my best friend and I brought up the subject as after-dinner talk, and after jokes and nonsense to feed our own happiness, he offered me his theory of faith: “When we die, I don’t know where we go, but it is to a place from which they send you back to earth in another form; that is, we reincarnate.” I thought his point of view was acceptable, but later, at home, when I found myself on that fine line between consciousness and unconsciousness, I reflected that it would not be logical to cling to such a thing. How many years had I heard our universe was ancient? Where was the prize or the punishment for our good walking as part of humanity? Where? Needless to say I was not satisfied. I was too weak to have blind faith in that theory. I discarded it without thinking much.
Time passed and the question persisted. I heard every kind of explanation: I heard about karma, about the lines and the seven chances we have to become demigods; I read that this earth was hell and that upon dying we should already have paid for our mistakes in order to pass into a better life; I heard people speak of Jesus Christ, call him a charlatan, a magician, or simply a wise man, but never a saint nor even immortal in another life.
It was one day, studying for an exam, when I read something that distracted me completely: “Matter is neither created nor destroyed, only transformed.” I was surprised by how easily one could derive, from that physical law, yet another theory of life after death. I imagined that upon dying we simply became part of a whole — since alive we are already part of a whole —. This allowed me to see that the human being is afraid of abandoning his individuality and is too selfish with others to merge with them in that whole. I imagined it would be beautiful to be part of that whole: to suffer with everyone, laugh with everyone, be the artist and the audience in an eternal work of energy stirring through the whole universe. I rejoiced! But in a few days the joy passed. Uncertainty returned, the fear of the pain that becoming part of a whole might imply, the fear of eternity, the fear of repeating the same thing over and over. Fear, again.
Now I have been thinking and reading a great deal on this subject, and that is how I arrived at the body of information I will try to explain. It is needless to say that the questions have ceased, not entirely, but the storm has eased. It would be a lie to say I feel satisfied — I am not and never will be while I live — but I can say that this gives my being something better than what the other theories gave.
When you sleep very, very deeply, what do you feel? When you are very tired, you lie down at night and get up in the day, what do you remember of the night before? Have you ever hit your head so hard as to have no memories of the moment before or after the blow? What do you remember of the times you have fainted?
When you sleep deeply, so does your consciousness. When you hit your head very hard, there are times when your brain stops receiving oxygen and simply the current goes out; the same happens when one faints: one ceases to have consciousness. You are not afraid of being fainted, you are not afraid of being asleep, you are not afraid of being unconscious — and you are not because you are very brave, but because the perfect computer you carry in the attic stops for an instant —. It is that computer, precisely, that produces the fears, the joys, the terrors, and the worries in our being. In fact, death is a concept proper to thought, and since that thought will no longer be there… what should I fear?
I tend to think that at the moment of dying I will no longer fear, no longer feel, nor enjoy any more; but neither will I be sad for not enjoying or experiencing the things around me, since my brain, simply and plainly, will stop working. There will be nothing: not even a memory. It will not hurt me, I will not suffer, nor will I find out what is on the other side. Simply, everything will end.
The question is: should I sadden because I will cease to exist, or because my memories will cease to exist?
The answer is: No! Never!
Life has been given to me by whoever — whether by God himself or by a simple accident — but while I am alive and can enjoy smells, colors, flavors, sounds, feelings, everything, I will do it with all I can. Perhaps the motto is precisely that: to enjoy this gift that has been made to us, or this beautiful mistake that we are. And why not? I am going to believe in God, I am going to believe in his kingdom; and if upon dying that kingdom did not exist, I will not be able to lament it, because there will simply be nothing to lament. Because there will be nothing.
While I can, I will enjoy this life to the fullest: this life that has been my paradise in its past, in its present, and in its promise of tomorrow.