We’re all going to die.

You may as well get used to the fact, as you have little say in the matter. Many have gone before you, and many will proceed you. You may even die today. On your way home. Just when everything was finally looking a little brighter, some prick in his father’s Audi flies out from behind that blind spot and turns you into several you’s. And after it’s happened, what in hell can you do about it? Or for literary sake, what can you do about it in hell?

As to where you end up once your heart throws in the metaphorical white towel, I don’t know. And neither does any living being on the face of the earth, because they haven’t been there, despite what the raving preacher may yell at children in the mall. No living being has ever seen the flip side of life, because death is essentially a one-way ticket.

There is no way to prove the existence of an afterlife. Even knocking someone off and bringing them back can only prove that some people will do anything for quick cash. For all we know, the brain, in it’s throes of death, could, in some final attempt to prove it’s worth, throw endorphins everywhere, conjure memories, and let one’s imagination run wild. Thus we could bring someone back to life, and they could tell us that they felt absolute calm, saw their dead grandmother, and then found themselves in a huge field of daisies or something, and we would cry for joy, satisfied that there simply must be something to look forward to after our miserable lives, when all such hopes and expectations were just the scrapings of some medical volunteer’s thought barrell. The calming white light that is so common among resuscitates is another topic of debate, for the same effect is experienced by a brain starved of oxygen. Try it. It is quite possible that this effect, commonly seen as proof of a soul leaving a body, or of some supernatural deity coming to further his quota, is simply the warped imagery spawned from a dying brain. This could actually be a good thing. I can’t help but think that a darkened tunnel offering a white light at it’s end is probably the last thing a crap sees before it becomes one with the ocean.

With such little proof that people are not wasting their time with churches, worshiping, and waving at small balding men in glass boxes, it is hard to justify such activities. Consider for a second that there is no god, no heaven, and that the only thing after death is a wooden box, a few teary eulogies and then a subterranean tour of your local cemetery, wildlife included. Go on, think it. It’s not like you’ll be cast to hell in a second if you demonstrate free thought for a tick.

Good. Now think, if this were the case, how many hours of your life you would have wasted buying points with your favorite deity? Compiled, perhaps. Days? Months? Years? All for squat. Zip. Nada. Nil. Like paying twelve dollars for a pizza only to find out that there is no pizza, and no refunds. With one major difference - with the pizza, you can complain. With death, you can’t even mumble incoherently and leave the shop.

Live your life as it comes, and assume nothing. Saving up brownies with unproven philosophies wastes time. You have eighty years or less on this planet. Stop worshipping and listen to music. Draw something. Watch a really good flick and then complain about it with your friends. Take drugs. Experiment. Fuck up your life, and learn things on the journey.

Or don’t. What the fuck do I care.