If the doctor gives you, say six weeks to live from today, you will either
a) appreciate the fuck out of every living second you have left or
b) mope around until you finally kick the bucket.
Guess which one will stretch time the most.
In the grander scheme of things, however, it won't matter how you spend your last six weeks alive. You'll be dead by then, so you won't sentient enough to give a fuck about what happens after.
The ones you were with will either remember you as the cheerful happy go lucky guy who smiled bravely in the face of death, or as the sulking, sad mopey dude- a natural response to impending death. Neither of which will remotely affect how your near and dear ones look at you on account of you being earthworm food for all intents and purposes. You see, when you are dead, people tend to sympathize with you.
People always tend to be compassionate towards people who have a prior appointment with death. I mean, we all do, but for most of us it's a chance encounter when death looks us in the eye and french kisses us. For some unfortunate ones, death sends you a save the date with the RSVP filled in for you. So considerate.
(I wrote this on a whim and now I don't know how to end this. So, consider this some sort of an avant-garde, abrupt ending which mimics the sudden and abrupt ending of life itself.)
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