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Imagine you're on a cruise ship in the middle of the Pacific ocean. Suddenly, you're thrown overboard and you're stranded, alone, swimming in the middle of absolutely nowhere. No land near enough to swim to, no one coming to rescue you, and waves that are too strong for you to just float on your back. You have to kick and fight to stay above the surface and breathe. But you know that you're running out of energy. You know that you're going to sink. You can't fool yourself into thinking that there's going to be any happy ending for you. But you struggle to stay above the water anyway.
Maybe the instinct to survive is too strong for you to just give up easily. Maybe you just need a little extra time before you're fully comfortable with the inevitable. Maybe you want to do all that you can to leave that window of time open just a little longer for some impossible miracle to swoop in and save you.
But you know it won't do any good. Like a person covered in flames, flailing around pointlessly before dying because there's nothing else to do. Or a person cursing at a bear while being eaten by that same bear. Or a person running from a sniper and dying exhausted.
I think that when we're not yet comfortable with death, we fear it. But when we've become comfortable with our death, but are still too attached to the idea of being alive, we meet it with stubborn indignation. And that indignation makes us do undignified, pointless things.
Depression is practically cultivated in some places.