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Ever since I turned 40, I’ve been more aware of, and thinking more often about, my own mortality. (So clich├ęd! I know.)

One of the most comforting things I’ve stumbled across is this Epicurean epitaph:

I was not; I have been; I am not; I do not mind.

The idea that I won’t exist is terrifying. I don’t want to stop existing. But thinking about it in those terms — that it won’t matter to me because I won’t exist — is oddly reassuring.

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