Death, Self-Importance, and the Quiet Panic of Living

Most of us secretly believe that if we were to die, we would miss something essential—the endless drama of the world, constantly unfolding without pause. Somewhere beneath that thought lies a deeper illusion: that we are, in some way, running the world. That without us, things would unravel, become imperfect, lose their measure.

We imagine ourselves as final judges—of a song, a film, a book, an engineering marvel, even of people and events. I often wonder what this sense of centrality does to those who are genuinely famous, rich, successful, or publicly accomplished. If this feeling exists in ordinary lives, how heavy must it be in theirs? Perhaps that is why saying goodbye to life is difficult for almost everyone—even for those who live recklessly, intensely, or as if consequences do not apply.

Faith in God or an afterlife can offer comfort. Hindu philosophy, like many organized religions, provides elaborate answers through scripture and belief. Yet there is a quiet disturbance that remains: even if rebirth is real, we do not remember our previous lives—just as we will not remember this one. The forgetting itself is unsettling.

Is there any guarantee that good karma ensures a better next life? Will it be smoother, more comfortable? Will it offer the romance we missed, the physical pleasures unfulfilled, the desires postponed or denied? The honest answer is no. There is no guarantee—only speculation.

So what are we meant to do with this knowledge?

Ageing makes the questions sharper. With time, many doors close—not only materially, but physically and emotionally. Even if wealth is created, certain experiences quietly slip away: a youthful body, intense romance, sexual vitality, adventure sports, reckless travel, effortless health. Loss accumulates invisibly.

The questions multiply; the answers remain few, and even the best philosophical works rarely satisfy for long. I walk into bookstores and read Nietzsche, Osho, and others. They soothe me—but only temporarily. The calm fades.

So is life a blessing or a curse?

Are my pets more fortunate than I am—unburdened by these questions, living fully within the present moment? Were animals the original, uncomplicated creations of nature or God, while humans were designed to build vast, intricate systems that ultimately point toward nothing meaningful?

Perhaps the tragedy is not death, but awareness. Or perhaps awareness is the price of whatever meaning exists.

And maybe the most honest position is this: to live without final answers, to age without guarantees, and still continue—questioning, loving, doubting, and participating—knowing that the universe does not revolve around us, yet still allows us to feel as if it does.