Isa and I finished watching Six Feet Under last night. I was half expecting there to be some reunion in heaven, but no such luck. I was glad to have seen a show so focused on death, real death. Made me realize how easy it is for mass media to skirt around the issue, even when people are dying left and right.

I don’t think I’m afraid of death. I’m not sure if that’s a good thing. If I was more afraid, then would I be more motivated to do meaningful things with my life? If you have too blase an attitude, then there’s really no rush, because it doesn’t matter much anyway.

Lately I’ve been imagining myself as a delicate machine that could stop working if it were the least bit off kilter. It’s almost a disbelief that my body will continue to function on its own, without being supported from the outside or plugged in or something. I also get this feeling that my body, all my blood and guts, are in this really thin plastic baggie, and everything will come tumbling out if it gets punctured. Then I imagine my heart exploding. These thoughts have replaced the vertigo of jumping from high places or driving into oncoming traffic. Anybody else think these things?