To Die: An Essay
of Death and the Mind and Things
“To
die, to sleep -
To sleep, perchance to dream - ay, there's the rub,
For in this sleep of death what dreams may come...” –William Shakespeare, Hamlet
To sleep, perchance to dream - ay, there's the rub,
For in this sleep of death what dreams may come...” –William Shakespeare, Hamlet
“We
are the naturalists, the collector of specimens.” I’m paraphrasing Aldous Huxley’s
words. To him, the human mind was our
last remaining “Darkest Africa”. Sixty years after Huxley wrote “Heaven and
Hell” things have not changed much. We are still scratching around in the dark,
still looking for the door handle to the inner recesses of the mind. I’m there
alongside the rest; I am the collector of specimens within this realm of the
subconscious. No, not the subconscious; deeper still; as Huxley puts it, “The
Antipodes of the Mind”.
In
“Heaven and Hell” Huxley proposes that Heaven is within our own minds. I cannot
agree or disagree with him. However, if he is right or wrong, the search may yield
fruit regardless. And so, I go into the mind hoping for God or Heaven or both and
preparing for some dram of enlightenment even if God or Heaven is not to be
found.
There is a point in a man’s life when he
thinks of death and of what lies beyond the doorway. It is at this time when
life takes a back seat, when the bags are packed and he contemplates the
journey ahead, into the unknown. I’m sure I’m not dying, not anytime soon, I
thought. But who can say, really? Life is so fragile; this bag of meat and
bones is so… “mortal” that we can never be certain when it will expire.