In my twenties, I never thought about death. I never thought about dying. Even when nearly killed, I was sure I would live forever and be happy.
In my forties, I began thinking about death as my folk and friends began to die, and I developed a sudden fear of dying. I didn’t want to die viewing it as unfair.
Now, in my sixties, I know that I will die one day. My greatest fear isn’t of death itself, or even what lays beyond, rather that I’ll die alone in an uncomfortable bed, mindless of myself and those I love.