Death is, of course, an imaginary condition. Absence of consciousness, since it cannot be experienced, can only be imagined. 

                  Dying is not imaginary; we do it all the time, sometimes more vividly. 

                  Some weeks ago, I was dying, fading out of being from is to was. That this realization was premature didn’t diminish its surprise. The worlds that contain us and that which contain, however briefly, only our memory feel foreign they’re so far.

                  Agency was the first great difference. The dead cannot affect outcomes, even by a wink or frown. We’ve no voice. Our preferences are not consulted. (Those who insist the dead “would have wanted” something are displacing their own choice to an absent, less impeachable authority.) 

                  Irresponsibility is a surprising relief. For any posthumous result we’ve neither credit nor blame. Thus we observe the activities of the living with serene indifference. Dead, no oh-shit moments can occur for shit we have become.

                  Interment’s idleness startled. Why bother doing? No benefit even to one’s health. I envisioned myself, stone-still, puzzling what to do next. How can one do nothing? In life, stillness is a choice, but now?

                  Absence had become presence. This is what happens when we erase time. Time is our tormenter, rousting us from bed, demanding justifications. Crime, duty, exuberance, remorse are a few of time’s children. An instant, like a coin, may be misspent, which seeds doubt, which stirs thought. The keener consciousness, the more acute uncertainty about one’s choices.

                  I enjoyed my getaway to death. I slept like a baby, having nothing to keep me awake. I was sorry to have left loved ones sorrowing – I hope, sorrowing! – but that was not my doing. I did not writhe to make more of my time. What I had or hadn’t made of it could not be remedied.

                  For all my angst and attempts, hindsight made being seem a tranquil and humorous affair. We humans take ourselves so seriously, striving and fretting our hour across the stage only to be heard no more! How I’d sweated posterity’s verdict, only to discover it the same for all, any difference only “a matter of time.” Out like a light or guttering for millennia, what difference really? Vanity! Boasting rights! And what use they among the dead?

                  Forgiveness was a pleasant perk of death. Folks were who they were, I as I was. What did “unforgivable” mean? Those I’d loathed in life had offended my sense of goodness – but what infused me with that sense? Logic, my parents, God? Come now!

                  Resuming my old pursuits wasn’t easy after death. Write – why? Socialize – why? Even eat – why? Why not just loll, as in my hospital bed, awaiting the end of time? What difference my puny and exasperating attempts to plump my self-importance? But then, oh, the loneliness of being in time! In death’s shadow, the clock ticks quickly, but absent death, time stretches interminably, till one’s eager, even frantic, for touch. We exist for each other. We participate in the adventure of being if only to disguise its vacuity. Being in time, I know how to spend my time, a welcome reprieve.