Biological processes are not devoted to survival at all, but equally and maybe even more so to dying, sacrifice, inward destruction, and even suicide. Where the idea became so pervasive that one lives to keep living, or that one must eat in order to gain sustenance and keep living, I don’t know. It seems obvious that every step one takes in physical life promotes one’s death equally or maybe more definitely, as it does make one fitter and fatter. We are fattened only for the slaughter. But it seems one’s personal death, the explicit death of their own body, has been left out of the general, onward and upward, survival picture, as if the world and society and Mankind, whatever horrible many headed monster of self-interest that is, are devoted only to life. But the actual person can just figure out their own fate by themselves. They are only essentially contributing to the picture by what they do when they are stuffing their face, or on their exercise bicycle, or contributing to the gross national produce, while active in the pursuit of grinning, all consuming, life. One begin to suspect that “life” is very must a catch-all, poorly defined, and it would look like death, if specifically encountered or described. And this is what a person faces eventually, somebody says to them: not this time, sorry, that carrot just make you fatally ill. Even in nature, cyclical processes which clearly involve death are viewed as essentially life-giving, as if the renewal of life trumps the phase it just experienced, the process were essentially devoted to endless growth, or at least survival–because for some reason this has been drummed into our heads, that life is interested in perpetuation, at all cost, and even we must contribute our bodies to it! And the sun must always come up again.

But there is no reason to believe the sun must come up again. There is every reason to believe in death coming up again, and I stare into the black mirror of existence and see my face deep in its depths

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