I’ve heard that one of peoples’ greatest fears is the fear of dying alone. What a stupid fear. Of course we are going to die alone. Everyone dies alone.
Perhaps that is cynical, but it’s the truth. Even if I were to die with 50 other people on a tour bus, the experience of death and dying is all mine: I am dying. I am dead.
The transition from life to death is perhaps quite scary. What happens next? What about my friends? My family? My obligations? One might lie there on his deathbed, proclaiming in soliloquy, a story of woe to himself, and despite his pleas and the count of his audience, he alone will die; he will die alone.
He lived alone, in fact.
Regardless of his ability to multiply, or the number of his children, grand children, wives or friends, he lived alone. When he smelled flowers, or sang songs or cried for joy or sadness, he alone did those things. Though his choices affected many, none of them affected anyone as much as him. They were his choices alone.
When he spoke precious words to one or to thousands, it was he that spoke the words. When he told her of the love he had for her, he told her of his love, and he loved.
All men live and die and act alone. Every man’s life is a soliloquy.
The fear is not that he die alone; but rather, that he die unnoticed.