Yeah, if you read the last post... when I said that I had an odd feeling to write something about death... well here it is. I'm going to open up the can-o'-beans that is my head. Lucky, lucky you. Lucky, lucky, lucky, lucky, clucky, clucky, cluck, cluck... er... sorry, I just remembered that scene from Blackadder III.
Anyways. Where to start...
Well, I remember I said something about it before, though it was mostly about religion, not death itself...
Well (again), I'm seventeen, going on eighteen (...shit)... and as I approach this milestone, I'm genuinely scared of what the future has in store with me. Not only that, as I'm sitting here, typing these words that will last much longer than I will (unless BlogSpot goes under administration), I realise, maybe more than others my age, of my mortality. The fact that I, one Gareth Aled John, will die. Even as I wrote that sencetence (and as I misspelled that word again), I don't want to accept it.
I mean, other's my age are care free, probably the only bad thing they think of is if they fail they're exams or if they won't get into university (yeah, both linked to me). With me, it's the little known fact that I will cease to exist in a matter of years, weeks, or even maybe seconds. Like, it's a guess, but when you were young (say, five, six, roughtly that age), you were playing around, saying stuff like 'I wanna live forever woooo' or something like that. Me? All I remember going was 'I don't want to die!'. Me, aged six, crying into my sister's arms, repeating the same five words over and over again. All that was about was the BBC News said the Solar System would end in a small hiccup, rather than it's big bang entry.
It's the same now. I was in bed, roughly twelve-ish. I was just lying there. It hit me that I wouldn't be here forever. I just panicked. Jumping out of bed, saying 'No. NO!'. And for some reason, I broke down slightly, shedding a few tears (which, I know, sounds pathetic). I tried to return to sleep, but everytime I closed my eyes for a few mere seconds made me fall I was getting closer to my final destination. So, I ended up watching the whole first series of Little Britain. Though, my tiredness had overridden my thaughts, thus making me sleep through Jeremy Kyle and my tea froze. Also it made my next three nights be a short sleep.
I know why I'm like this. Well, I think I know... it's like when I typed 'I, Gareth Aled John, will die', I just felt like I was a number. Nobody'll take notice at the fact that I would've met my maker (as a guess, I think it's Aldi). Or if people do notice, there'd be a few tears shed for the sake of the occasion. But there's nothing that'll put me in the future's mindset.
If that doesn't make sense, I'll try to make sense of it. It's like, look at everything around you. Your computer screen. Your top, socks, trousers. Your walls, your ceiling, your floor. Anything. Everything you've looked at. All that will last longer than you will. It's true. Well, most of it. I mean that cup of tea that I wasted didn't last longer than me, it went down the toilet, but the cup might. Anyways, that cupboard that's holding most of your belongings will be there, and maybe in some fifty years, there'd be a futuristic Antiques Roadshow, and that dude'll tell the antiques dealer 'oh, not sure who was the first owner is'. See? You'll be 'the first owner'. Some guy (or girl). A pile of skin and bones, wasting away whilst the memory of you disappeared by the time your grandchildren become grandparents. Then all you'd be is someone's great-great-great-great grandad. No-one'll remember your name. And I don't know about you, but I don't want that to happen. It might sound that I'm turning into some egotistical person, but I don't want to end up dead, with nothing to show for it.
Saying that, in my head it'l like a double edged sword. I want to be remembered in years after the inevitable (spelling?), but I don't want to become famous for it. I don't want to be in the mainstream, where everything I do, everyway I turn, is in the eyes of Big Brother and his ten cats. But, as I feel the reality of is seems to show me so harshly, it seems that the only way to even think of having a memory after death is to become famous. Take Marily Monroe. Would she have a long lasting memory if she didn't do the things she done? I don't know what exactly, I think she was an actress. But the mere fact that I know what she looks like, though I've never met her... it must show something about her impact of the world (well, not impact, y'know what I mean)...
Wuthering Heights is on ITV1 at the moment. Cathy's just died. Heathcliff found out and basically broke down. At least that's what I think's going on. Just to let you know.
Anyways. Since I won't be around when I die, I don't really know why I want to be remembered so badly when I go. Maybe I want to feel like I've done something worth remembering. And what have I done so far? Created a blog with thrity-six posts and participated in three cricket matches, in which I managed only five runs while batting, and three wickets while bowling. Oh, don't forget the whole 'took art for AS level and got kicked out of it when there was a week left until the coursework was supposed to be in by' thing. Oh, it must've been hilairious for some people when I finally got the shove. Ah well, who gives a shit.
Ah well... I should leave it there before I go nuts... but before I go... I have one question... what would Jesus do?...
Sorry, I love Outnumbered... =).
- Fin.
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