I closed my eyes and tried to recall the sensation of sleeping, but all that existed for me inside was a wakeful darkness.
A wakeful darkness: what it called to mind was death.
Was I about to die? And if I died now, what would my life have amounted to?
There was no way I could answer that.
All right, then, what death?
Until now I had conceived of sleep as a kind of model for death.
I had imagined death as an extension of sleep.
A far deeper sleep than ordinary sleep. A sleep devoid of all consciousness. Eternal rest. A total blackout.
But now I wondered if I had been wrong. Perhaps death was a state entirely unlike sleep, something that belonged to a different category altogether―like the deep, endless, wakeful darkness I was seeing now.
No, that would be too terrible. If the state of death was not to be a rest for us, then what was going to redeem this imperfect life of ours, so fraught with exhaustion?
Finally, though, no one knows what death is. Who has ever truly seen it? No one.
Except the ones who are dead. No one living knows what death is like. They can only guess.
And the best guess is still a guess. Maybe death is a kind of rest, but reasoning can’t tell us that.
The only way to find out what death is is to die. Death can be anything at all.
An intense terror overwhelmed me at the thought. A stiffening chill ran down my spine.
My eyes were still shut tight. I had lost the power to open them. I stared at the thick darkness that stood planted in front of me, a darkness as deep and hopeless as the universe itself.
I was all alone. My mind was in deep concentration, and expanding. If I had wanted to, I could have seen into the uttermost depths of the universe.
But I decided not to look. It was too soon for that.
If death was like this, if to die meant being eternally awake and staring into the darkness like this, what should I do?
Haruki Murakami, Sleep
https://www.amazon.com/dp/0679750533/ref=cm_sw_r_tw_dp_U_x_UTNoAbMV8PFG4