I do not really fear dying, but I do indeed remember a time when I feared living and the very casualty that comes with waking up each morning. Now, of course, I am not bothered a bit at this inevitable consequence of my meager birth. After many tears and sleepless nights, I eventually accepted it as just the way things are.
I know that I'll someday laugh at myself in the mirror sixty years from now, wondering what I was thinking, not to fear growing old. I will gaze into my own eyes, tired and framed by a deep web of laugh lines, and smile because I am soulfully reassured that there will still be a hint of fire and sparkle left somehow. I will look at my feet, worn and weakened with age, and laugh because I will remember all the lovely places they have taken me. I will examine my hands, shaky and arthritic as they may be, and rejoice for every memory of holding a small child in my arms, or the late nights they spent helping me to write countless nonsensical blogs about the unforeseen future.
And after all this, I will cry. I will mourn, wondering how many precious moments I have lost, how many times I should have let somebody else win, how many apologies that should have been mine in the first place.
But after all this which I have inwardly acknowledged, I wonder if I should someday actually like having the appearance of a raisin.