I am not sure I ever believed I was immortal, most likely because I didn’t think about it. Until sometime during college, when my various courses forced me to ponder the nature of life and death. College was the peak time for existential mental muck-raking. Being young makes these subjects philosophical.
Was this the result of too many hallucinogenic drugs? No. It was the lectures and classes. It was the books. Too many books.
I took courses like “The Philosophy of Religion” and “Phenomenology.”
I always had a steady list of existential books I needed to read for classes, in English and French. Sartre, Camus, Lawrence Durrell, et al.
It was deep stuff and is the literature I won’t read today.
That this hyper-intellectual phase of my life coincided nicely with my first actual near-death experience was pure chance. It cured me of pondering the meaning of life and death and aimed me more in the direction of staying alive.
“Hey, I could really DIE.”
It takes the fun and philosophy out of the experience and adds a hard edge of fear. I’m pretty sure we all thought we were smart and had a solid grip on the life and death stuff.
I was so wrong.
Now that I’m a senior citizen, I know I’m very mortal. One of these days, it will be a certainty.
I’ll get back to you on that.