Is it possible that I have always known deep down in my heart that the real me will never die?
It’s a curious question that lifts my mood upon thinking it. There is quite an obvious intangible feeling to being alive. But without a ready explanation we instead attach our fate to our bodies.
But that force that animates us, how could it be subject to harm? It’s that place within, it’s like a room without walls, where all things pass through but never stay. How do you harm a room?
If I take a memory from decades ago and then contrast it against my most recent memory, what is it between the two that hasn’t changed? I can sense that there was something then and now which has remained untouched by time.
The speed at which the ego infuses us with the fear of death is the biggest clue that it has something to hide. Something so threatening to it’s very existence it must force our attention elsewhere so the best kept secret in the history of humanity is never revealed.
There are absolutely countless phobias in the modern psychologists handbook, and I am sure most, if not all, can be traced back to a fear of death. The ego has masterfully exploited this fear into a most complex web of anxieties.
But perhaps the answer to all of that which plagues ourselves, our planet, and the key to the end of all fear is this simple obvious realization:
The real me can never die.