Someday I’m going to die of some disease, or
Someday I’m going to die in some accident, or
Someday I’m going to die slowly, or
Someday I’m going to die suddenly, or
Someday I’m going to die when this ol’ body wears out, but
Someday I’m going to die.
That’s such a weird thought.
And on the subject of weird: Where will I go?
You know, the “I” who is thinking this thought and sending a message to my fingers to write it down. The consciousness that sees this page, turns the head and looks at the water that’s only visible through the trees when their leaves fall off. Where will this consciousness go?
Of course, that’s the question of the ages. Where is Pontius Pilate? Where’s old Will Shakespeare? Is the consciousness that inhabited Amelia Earhart inhabiting some other body, or is it flying around the universe in some other form, or is it just gone, a product of the biological machine that carried it around for all those years?
You want to finish a thought like this with a conclusion, and many people are confident they know the answer, but it seems to me the answer can’t be known for certain until we get there, and then we can’t share the answer in any way we’ve been able to determine.
Our consciousness either continues, or it doesn’t. I find reasons for comfort in both alternatives. In either case, I’m happy to wait for the answer.
