[ WP ] Quantum Immortality turns out to be true , and no matter how hard you try to die , you improbably survive . You 're now 150 and still searching for a way to die

*Tired. * 
 That is the most appropriate description of the condition of my being. My body. My mind. Whatever nebulous thing it is we call a soul. All of it—*tired. * 
 I recently celebrated my 150th birthday. More precisely, my *doctors* celebrated my birthday, drinking champagne and toasting to “ the stunning progress of medical technology. ” Quite often they ’ d sung this term of worship to their sterile, manufactured gods. I ’ ve long known it ’ s nothing more than feigned modesty—an expression of the pride they feel for every day that their surgeries and therapies and medicines and electrically-animate idols have prolonged my banal existence. Somehow, only *my* banal existence. 
 People called me blessed, told me I ’ d been given “ the gift of life, ” asked me for secrets to health and prosperity. I read their letters and spat at their signatures from the mattress I ’ d tried to rot on for 60 bedridden years. 
 Though, my bitterness is not reserved for them. Nor is it reserved for any given entity, real, conceptual, or otherwise. My bitterness is toward the whole of it—these people that live and, more blessedly, *die* around me; the constant “ progress ” of technology toward an ever-fleeting end; this universe that lets energy change forms, but never be extinguished. Does no one see the pillow that death offers a tired head? Does no one question the rationality of prolonging life simply for the sake of prolonging life? Does nothing understand my weariness? 
 
 I can not blame my doctors for my exhaustingly-extended life. Nothing will let me die. When I was younger, it was last-minute epiphanies of the beauty of life. It was friends that showed up with loving words and wet eyes. It was an expression of pride from Dad or a hug from Mom. 
 It was something that made me love life for a bit longer. 
 As I got older, it was a gun that wouldn ’ t fire. It was a wrist that wouldn ’ t bleed. It was a cop that broke-down my door before the pills could digest. 
 It was something that made me want it more. 
 I long ago decided to acquiesce with reality. I can not die. 
 
 But, now, I am happy. Genuinely happy. A feeling amplified in magnitude by the decades it ’ s been since I ’ ve last felt it pervade my being. 
 *This might finally be the solution. * 
 In truth, the answer had come from my own mind. The dreary depths of my existential contemplations had finally produced a diamond; one so dirt-covered and blackened that most could never recognize the beauty that a bit of careful polishing could elicit. 
 There ’ s no need for my body to die. 
 *I* need to die. 
 *I* am a story waiting for the last period. *I* am a character forged from a plot I did not author. *I* am that which has something more to be. 
 Soon, I will again be nothing. 
 It should have been obvious to me. Who am *I* in dreamless sleep? Who am *I* when utterly enraptured by a moment of sensual bliss or agony? Who am *I* when there is nothing left to be thought about? Fundamentally, *I* am nothing. 
 I can not kill my body, but I do not need to. 
 I need to kill my identity. 
 
 “ So it ’ s like you ’ re shoving me back into my mother? ” my vocalization-machine sounded. I hadn ’ t *spoken* since I was a younger man—112. People have asked if it ’ s a strange feeling, having my thoughts processed as electronic signals, and, when willed, amplified through a speaker. I ask if it feels strange when a thought leaves one ’ s head by way of mouth and tongue—only when one actually considers the process. 
 “ Ha! You never did lose your sense of humor! ” the scientist laughed. 
 *Fuck off. That was the most fitting description I could think of. * My vocalization-machine kept the thought muted. 
 Instead, I questioned, “ It meets all of the conditions I specified? ” 
 “ Perfectly. You will experience no sensory stimulation whatsoever. The temperature is such that you ’ ll feel neither warm nor cold; the properties of the suspension-fluid such that no external pressure waves can be carried to your ears, nor can any internal motion produce a sound. Your digestive and respiratory processes will be closely monitored and provided for. You will never again know hunger, shortage of breath, the runs, or constipation! ” 
 Something in me smiled at that last part. Not my mouth, but something. 
 “ Your thoughts and emotions, however, those I can not speak for. ” 
 “ I can take care of that part myself. ” 
 “ I suppose you ’ ll have to. ” 
 
 He explained the thing to me as a biomechanical chamber, nearly self-sustaining—the energy still had to come from an external source. A complex system of organic compounds and computers would surround and connect to my body, constantly monitoring my vital conditions and providing for me accordingly. I just needed to be hooked-in and my body would never, in any regard, experience surplus or deficit. I would be Aristotle ’ s perfect mean; the Buddha ’ s middle-way. I would be all the unity and balance of the universe in one desperate microcosm. 
 
 I felt the rare sensation of air flowing across the back of my neck, torso, and legs as my body was lifted and transported to the machine that I hoped would be my grave. I was given no tombstone. I had, in fact, turned down countless requests for one from various corporations and religious organizations—the difference between the representatives only ever discernable through title and attire. They offered me huge sums of money to have their messages preserved on the exterior of my biomechanical resting place. 
 *Money. * Can you believe that? 
 I told them to immolate the bills and piss-out the flames. I held no reverence for their paper deities when I had a use for them, and my forthcoming oblivion ushered in no resurgence of piety. 
 
 Ultimately, it was decided that my tomb would bear only the name I ’ d chosen for it: *Moksha. * 
 
 It was *odd* being present for my own funeral, and nothing felt odd after a century-and-a-half of conscious experience. The team of doctors and scientists who ’ d studied me and kept me alive ( or been the puppets of a universe that wanted me alive—I am still unable to say which is more accurate ) stood together dressed in black suits. I ’ d only ever seen them in white coats. 
 They had already made sure—made *damn* sure—that any data they could gather about me and my rare condition had been collected. Of course, they still had questions. 
 “ How are you feeling? ” 
 * “ So good I could die. ” * 
 “ Do you think you ’ re ready? ” 
 * “ To sit motionless for eternity? I ’ ve been practicing for decades. ” * 
 “ Are you scared? ” 
 * “ … ” * 
 “ Are y- ” 
 * “ Only that it won ’ t end. ” * 
 
 Before they delivered me to *Moksha*, I was asked if I had any questions. There was only one, asked innumerable times but never answered. 
 * “ Why is it only me that never dies? ” * 
 One of the doctors sighed. 
 “ I don ’ t know. This is your unique experience of whatever we mean by ‘ life ’. ” 
 Their drugs gently slipped my mind toward unconscious sleep. When I awoke, my thoughts echoed in the emptiest of voids. 
 
 All I have now in *Moksha* is thought. This is my unique experience. Thoughts about thoughts about thoughts… They all seemed so meaningful and profound until they became all that I had. Now, I simply get lost in them, caught-up as if in a dream, only to be woken-up by a tangential thought that carries me to new ideas. Old thoughts fade like the wake from a ship. Where do they go? What a silly question… What a novel idea… 
 Like the idea that got me here! Kill my identity. Ha! “ My ” —as if there ’ s ownership to an idea… As if that metaphorical diamond I ’ d found was anything more than a semi-coherent reordering of words I ’ d heard from Alan Watts, Sartre, Nietzsche, Buddha, Jesus, Camus, Eckhart, Huxley, and those philosophy majors I got high with in college… We ’ re similar to diamonds, us self-aware beings—we ’ re just structures of carbon that found ourselves in an environment with too much pressure to be left unchanged; too much pressure to not become something greater. A diamond may never be anything more than the carbon it formed from, but, my God, is it beautiful when enlivened by light. Like light, I— ha… such a strange notion… *I*… Like a word that sounds more and more foreign as you repeat it… 
 I… 
 I… 
 I… 
 Aye… 
 Eye… 
 Igh… 
 Ight… 
 Light is everywhere. 
 There is nothing apart from light. 
 And this warmth. 
 And some distant thought of identity, already fading like the wake from a ship. Some complex example I ’ d created. It had almost seemed profound. But identity was nothing more than some conglomeration of sensations and feelings… Is nothing more than everything else… So simple… 
 The warmth is changing. It ’ s as if there are differences in the heat. Has this distinction always existed? And the light seems fragmented now… Pure white broken into blots and shaped sections, ripped from the united spectrum. How can they exist apart from the whole? And pain. Where had this come from? Pulling. Twisting. Trying to scream, but feeling fluid enter the vacuum in me. Wasn ’ t there supposed to be no feeling? Only thoughts and emotions? This is fear. No, no, no… 
 And, somehow, serenity. *Remember who I am. * *I*—what a funny notion… it ’ s nothing more than sensation, “ your unique experience of whatever we mean by ‘ life ’. ” *We*—what a funny notion. I thought there was only *I*—my experience. But, then, what was causing this changing heat? Where were these feelings of pain coming from? And these sounds that I did not produce- 
 “ -at 7.9 pounds ” 
 “ He ’ s beautiful ” 
 “ Congratulations ” 
 “ Welcome to life, little guy ” 
 “ A fourth baby boy, Hazel! Here we go again… ” 
 Again… 
 Again
