I have come down with the superflu a few times. It wasn't pleasant. I got better. However, whenever I get the flu, it's in its weaponized or at least africanized stages.
One particular bout against a mankind-ending strain, I recall vividly. By vividly, I mean I wasn't sure at one point if I was alive or dead. It was 2001, and Zarathustra had long since spake. Zarahustra may or may not have been speaking to me personally.
This illness was important because it marked one of a few pivotal events that started me over the crippling phases of my fear of death. During a period of wakefulness, I made myself get out of bed despite the inordinate amount of pain it took to live, and started pulling books from my bookshelf. I started leaving index cards marking how far I've read in these books and placing them inside. I wrote things like "Unfinished" and "Unread" on a number of books.
When I was done, I grabbed a book, I think a Lord of the Rings book, or perhaps one chronicle of Narnia and collapsed on my bed. I started to read. I think I maybe made it a page. I then fell asleep and had a fever dream.
In the fever dream I was battling hordes of monsters, easily dispatching them because that was a hero's lot. I was on an epic journey and I'd knew I'd make it regardless. I would be fine.
When I awoke, my fever broke and I felt a strange calm. I collected my index cards from my books and realized that whether anyone knew I read these or not didn't really matter. They were my books, I could read them or not read them if I chose. But, regardless, I'd still, one distant day, die. But I would be fine.
Whatever awaits us or whatever lack of anything that doesn't await or whatever, I'd be fine.
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