What May Happen When I Die?

Another lap around the sun has passed. With every tick of time, I’m quietly reminded that I’m moving — slowly, surely — toward the inevitable. It’s a thought that lingers: What happens when I die? Not out of fear, but curiosity. This question, recurring like a quiet echo, has become a kind of psychological ritual — not to dwell on death, but to wake myself up to life. To accept it, raw and unfiltered. As it is.

Spoiler alert: This isn’t your usual feel-good blog. It’s a shadowy stroll through life and death — a thought experiment wrapped in mortality, meant to make you smile because it’s uncomfortable. If you can’t read this without a little grin, maybe you’re still clinging too tightly to illusions. Truth is, none of us know when our last moment will come. So while we’re here, breathing and blinking, let’s not waste the miracle. Let’s celebrate Life.

Bliss of Birth to Dance of Death

Bliss of Birth:

It’s light breaking through darkness, the first breath, the promise of everything. It’s messy and sacred. A body screaming into life, unaware of the world it’s been gifted. The first flicker of awareness, the sudden rush from silence into sensation. That first breath is more than air; it’s the body’s declaration: I am here. It carries the weight of possibility, the promise of everything yet to be. It’s the soft, quiet awe that surrounds newness — a clean slate of endless becoming.

Dance of Death:

Death is the one story every single one of us shares, and yet, it’s the great unknown. It’s both an ending and maybe something else. It brushes up against everything we do, even if we don’t realize it. So it’s no wonder it pulls at you.

Maybe you’re drawn to the mystery — what happens after? Anything? Nothing? Rebirth? Silence?

Or maybe it’s the finality that’s captivating — how a single breath can be the last, and everything we thought mattered suddenly quiets.

Birth is fire and beginning. Death is shadow and release. And in between? We’re just dancing in the flicker of both.

The Many Doors to the End

There are many ways a life might end:

• Through age, illness, or the quiet failure of the body (most likely outcome)
• Accidents striking without warning — car crashes, bike falls, collisions (high probability at 50%, given frequent travel)
• Violence, from war to personal harm (possible, 30% chance)
• Inner battles: suicide, despair (low likelihood, 10% chance)
• Natural disasters: fire, flood, disease (rare possibility as a physics enthusiast, 5% chance)
• Without warning: peacefully in sleep (perhaps, 5% chance)

Day of Death:

People would be crying at top of their mourns. Medical college professionals would be happy accepting my body for lab experiments and discussing, which part would be useful.

Week of Death:

People would be enjoying this death as “get together of long met people”. At medical college students would be enjoying tearing apart my organs.

Month of Death:

People would be mentioning how good I’m ‘cos I treated them well. The ignored ones will be happy I died. Most of my organs would be floating in formaldehyde kept as specimen.

Year of Death:

This would be like a optional formality to clean my photo and garland it. As years pass by, photo will start to perish too.

What will I miss?

I’ve always hoped that my death won’t be mourned with sorrow, but celebrated like a strange, beautiful farewell party. Let there be dancing, laughter, maybe even a little chaos — not to erase the loss, but to honor the life that was. Sure, I’ll miss many things when I’m gone — the sky, the people, the little joys, strangers stupidity, close ones absurdity. But what I think I’ll miss most? The drama of my own departure. The one moment I won’t get a front-row seat to — how wildly unfair.

Who will miss me?

We always assume that our dear ones, family will miss us. It is NOT the case. People actually do NOT miss us. They just miss our contributions made in their life. Once the replacement of your contribution is found, we will be forgotten, forever.

Becoming Anything to Unbecoming Everything:

Life begins with infinite possibility — a soul flung into the world with no script, no shape, just the potential to become anything. A painter, a friend, a dreamer, a stranger, a storm. From our first breath, we’re in motion — gathering identities, memories, desires. We chase meaning, craft stories, build homes inside other hearts. We become names, roles, legacies. We fight to matter.

But as we age, the edges blur. The attachments loosen. The identities we clung to — the masks, the medals, even the scars — start to dissolve. This is the quiet turning: the shift from becoming to unbecoming. Not in loss alone, but in release. Death isn’t just the end of life — it’s the end of form, the shedding of definitions. Everything we were starts to fall away, like autumn leaves releasing from the tree that no longer needs them.

Unbecoming is not erasure. It’s a return. A return to the vast stillness beneath the noise, the self beyond the skin. From becoming anything, we spiral gently into unbecoming everything — returning not with fear, but with grace. As if we were never just one thing, but all things — briefly gathered in a single body.

“Maybe the journey isn’t about becoming anything. Maybe it’s about unbecoming everything that isn’t really you, so that you can be who you were meant to be in the first place.” -Paulo Coelho