I have felt like this twice before. Once was when I was homeless, trying to sleep under a bridge in the rain. The other time was when She was in the hospital dying and I was sitting in that cold, white, sterile waiting room, drinking tasteless water out of those tiny paper cups because there was nothing else to do but lose my mind.
In each case I felt a coldness that had nothing to do with temperature. It was as if my soul had detached from my body and, without the superficial covering of flesh, it felt how exposed and fragile it is in the open air. I’m sure this is what death is like.
It’s funny, sometimes I can understand how humans cling so tightly to life, calling it the most precious thing, dedicating their entire existence to its preservation. But I guess when your entire life becomes cold, there’s really no reason to hold on to it. Am I afraid of death? You bet your ass. Am I afraid of feeling an eternity of this coldness? Yes. But then again, the potential reward, nonexistence, is so very tempting. And I’ve always been a gambling man.