It’s so easy to say that you’d die for someone. People say it all the time, like it’s expected. Like it’s obvious.
“Oh yeah, of course. I love them; I’d die for them.”
Like the two things intrinsically go together.
But think about it; seriously think about it. How many people would you actually die for? How many people would you actually be willing to end your existence for?
When you’re not staring at it, when you’re not looking at it right in the face and imagining the cold, black horror of eternity, maybe your answer is your loved ones. Your family, best friends. Maybe, if you’re one of those more altruistic souls, you’ll say anyone.
“As long as it helps another survive, my sacrifice will be worth it.”
And that’s all well and good, sure. Go out in a blaze of glory, get your name etched on some plaque, live forever in the hearts and minds of those you’ve left behind. It sounds awesome; who wouldn’t go for that kind of a send-off?
Except that it’s still a send off. Hell, it’s still the end of everything, whether you like it or not. No enjoying that glorious aftermath, is there, ‘cause there’s no. More. You.
So how many people, then? How many people are you really willing to end for?
If someone you love dies, it sucks. It hurts, hell, worse than anything else you can imagine. It’s like a part of you being cut off, but not just something lame and insignificant like a limb. This is something being ripped out from inside your soul. But you know what? You’re still there to feel it. You’re there to hurt, to ache, to hobble along and heal and learn to get along without that shattered piece of you. You can comfort yourself with thoughts like “they’d want me to move on” and “they’re in a better place” and one day, before you know it, you’ve stopped thinking about them so much. And the hurting’s gotten smaller.
There’s life after suffering, but there’s no suffering after life’s over.
A/N: Taken from the middle of a novel, where a character reminisces on her life choices, but I think it works as a standalone.