I've lived 1/3 of my life (if I'm lucky). I try not to think about how long I might live or how tenuous our grasp on existing sometimes proves to be, but one of the books I'm reading made me start pondering this again.
Last night, as I lay in bed, trying to tuck in a few more pages before I put the light out, I got to a section in my book that shook me. The character in my story, whom I don't really love or hate at this point, was in car crash (because of his hallucinations due to drugs and alcohol) and was burned very badly. He is found and taken to the hospital and there he is in the burn ward, with too much time on his hands and all-too painful procedures to endure.
So, he decides that all he is doing is playing along with the doctors, pretending that he cares about healing. While in reality what he's really doing is acting until he's well enough to be released, at which point he plans on killing himself. It's very early in the book, so I have to imagine that he doesn't end up doing that...besides there is an interesting plot development that I see coming.
But something that the character thinks about his currently planned impending doom got me thinking. I don't know if there is an afterlife, but one day, I'll get to find out. And that, more than anything else, terrifies me. Not enough to make me pretend that I believe in some imaginary afterlife to make myself feel better, but more than anything else I can think of.