I’d always wondered what it was like to die. I had dreams where I did; I’d wake up with my heart racing, hands ice-cold and slightly trembling. Then I’d soon realise it was only a dream and, intoxicated with relief I’d smile, thinking how wonderful it was to be given a second chance at life. I’d be happy for a while before the feeling wore off, and the drudgery of life resumed. Sometimes I’d wish that these dreams were real — at least I’d have one less thing to worry about. Death scared me.
The great thing about death is that, with it in mind, I’m no longer fearing that I’d regret decisions I made in life. The pain of regret is often nowhere as near to the pain of suffering from the fear of regret. I don’t look back on my life, thinking “if only” because I honestly don’t care anymore. With death, the necessity of living with negative consequences from regretful actions stop. Some decisions, some may argue, like those involving others, do not stop at my death, and I wholeheartedly agree with that. But my regrets do. And besides, I know that in the end all those affected by my bad decisions will enjoy death like I will, too.