Isn’t it always the others whom it’s different for?
Yes, it is. Never for us; because we’re too deep inside us, too entrenched with ourselves. Therefore we don’t see what is being carried out in and through us. We don’t notice the river that pushes us further and beyond, to the point where the whole scenery has changed and we no longer remember where we started out, what it used to feel like. We only vaguely remember and retain the scent of the old flowers. Now, both our old self and the old flowers are dead.
I got it, though: it is change that really scares us, not death. Death only scares us as the ultimate form of change. It is not the sure fact of our disappearance that bothers us; not being here is nothing new; we experience that every night and, more and more, every day. It is just not being sure we will be ourselves until the end, and not being able to assure, never really being able to assure the permanence of anything or anyone that makes up our world. It becomes apparent that, one day, all that makes sense will have vanished, including our own sense of memory, our own vague recollections of the scent of the old flowers. That is the most important thing of our whole life; it is, perhaps, the only meaning we will ever find to life. And what will be the joy of being alive in a life we are no longer able to begin to grasp, even as minimally as we ever get to do?