I’ve just finished breakfast. I enjoy breakfast. All that lovely tea, and toast dripping with butter. Well, it’s actually margarine but today’s chemicals can really make it taste butter-like.
I always feel a bit disappointed that it’s over for another day. The last swallow of tea washing down that final crumb of toast leaves one wishing there might just be one more mouthful. But there never is.
I suppose dying is a bit like that: a sense of disappointment in those moments before the final snuff-out, a desire for just a few moments longer before the eternal darkness, or Heaven, or Hell, reaches out and grabs one. It all depends on one’s beliefs, of course. Well, actually, it doesn’t. Belief has nothing to do with it. What will be, will be. My brother-in-law lives with eternal disappointment. He’s an ardent Christian but is permanently sad that his sister and I (equally ardent non-Christians) won’t be allowed into the family party in Heaven, consigned as we will be in his belief to the Eternal Fiery Lake.
Frankly, I can’t resist a slight sense of relief. While the Eternal Fiery Lake has its drawbacks it just may be preferable to eternity in the company of my brother-in-law and his family. Not that I consider Hell an option. These days I’m firmly of the opinion that when you’re gone, that’s it. And while I know I’ll likely feel a momentary sense of disappointment that my life’s all over, it’ll at least be my final sense of disappointment and hopefully brief.
The same cannot be said of breakfast. I wonder if I might sneak another slice of toast?