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– ANAKANA SCHOFIELD – the endless lost documents in one of the endless old computers that ultimately go the recycling and take all the unknown whatever it was with them to be reformatted and redeployed. Scrub it out, I say. Scrub it out because I only have to go back into this hole all over again. PART 7: DISTORTION. REAL. We are all dying basically from the moment we are born. My theory has long been that we should be discussing dying every subsequent minute since so that by the time our hour is up we are utterly exhausted thinking about it and a certain peace overtakes us. Here I verify that in the typing of ‘a certain peace’ (on February 16 2016) a heavy pressure is felt in my chest like someone is pushing a wooden board against it. Imaginatively it could be oak. It could also be a book shelf, a single plank, but realistically I have to stop typing because it’s uncomfortable and I do not like the distress that typing out my one-line-theory provokes and (my pulse is presently 81) must pause for inhale or more verifiably to indulge in some kettle boiling until this passes sufficient to recommence typing. Someone once pointed out to me that I will not know about dying/death once I am dead. That was quite a 146
page 165
– The Difficult Question – revelation, as it had never occurred to me. It brought forty-three seconds of calm, before the holy terrors ­re-arose and I returned to my default setting, which is ‘all will be gone’ and there will be no more and it will end. Over. Fin.15 Rationally that doesn’t seem such a terrible thing, since there’s plenty to be said for being gone and no longer pondering the more depraved aspects of mankind but even as I type this, my heart rate increases, an uncomfortable clench occurs in my throat and stomach and my eyes squint. It induces a physical tic, which generally takes the form of a head shaking or (left-side inclined) body twitch, a means of the body trying to dispose of this thought. Death is always chasing the thanatophobe. It’s chasing all of us. It’s chasing me extra though. It’s chasing me for all of you who are not aware you’re being chased. I have committed to being extra chased because my appetite for redundant anxiety is accommodating. For most well-adjusted to dying types (ie. not thinking about it or running from it) it’s more like a ponderous jog on a seventy-year marathon, whereas for the thanatophobes, or TPs as I will call us, it’s like the hundred metres sprint all day long with a fox yapping at your Achilles. A thanatophobe sits in a plane and visualizes, not just falling out of the sky, but burning flesh, bodily disintegration and who will melt first. 15. Enfin even? 147

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– ANAKANA SCHOFIELD –

the endless lost documents in one of the endless old computers that ultimately go the recycling and take all the unknown whatever it was with them to be reformatted and redeployed. Scrub it out, I say. Scrub it out because I only have to go back into this hole all over again.

PART 7: DISTORTION. REAL.

We are all dying basically from the moment we are born. My theory has long been that we should be discussing dying every subsequent minute since so that by the time our hour is up we are utterly exhausted thinking about it and a certain peace overtakes us. Here I verify that in the typing of ‘a certain peace’ (on February 16 2016) a heavy pressure is felt in my chest like someone is pushing a wooden board against it. Imaginatively it could be oak. It could also be a book shelf, a single plank, but realistically I have to stop typing because it’s uncomfortable and I do not like the distress that typing out my one-line-theory provokes and (my pulse is presently 81) must pause for inhale or more verifiably to indulge in some kettle boiling until this passes sufficient to recommence typing.

Someone once pointed out to me that I will not know about dying/death once I am dead. That was quite a

146

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