Looking for Alaska by John Green

Death is not the important question, what matters is the aftermath of it. It won’t matter how much you lived until the day you die and then suddenly everything starts to revolve around the fact that you never ate too much celery if the dinnerware had distracting geometric patterns on it, or that you liked to walk alone on Sunday noons even if it could’ve exposed you to too much harmful sunlight. It’s frightening, isn’t it? How every little nothingness becomes a little part of a repetitive sentence that ends with a -too much- and almost absolutely never made sense when you were alive. And it’s in those abundant -too much-s that death becomes terrifying.

Life doesn’t end with a well thought eulogy, it ends with that one final breathe of an empty mind.
I doubt people ever think anything right before they die, death isn’t absolute as they show in the movies. The last breath is unnoticed, the end of an almost and the beginning of an absolute. Before death finally arrives, there’s every other thought that could exist. If you read the last words of people, it’s absolutely hilarious how something that’s supposed to be gloomy, a preface to the doomsday, is entirely vague and genre-less.
You either know that your death is staring at you or you’re just completely dumbfounded by the randomness of events that is your life. There’s no in between.

So is it okay to run from it so much that if you were to be the protagonist of a book, the reader would rather settle with your death than to have you a happy ending? I wanted Alaska to live through it but if it weren’t a vague end, if only she left a note that answered every question to her death I would’ve been happy. I would’ve let her go. But she didn’t, she didn’t write the script to her death like she wrote the script to the world’s greatest prank. She disappeared into a vague cloud of nothingness. Maybe that’s how death is supposed to be but I was so struck on the idea of death being perfect that I just couldn’t let her go.

Can we, for once, stop being obsessed with the perfect that never existed?
Here I found myself a little in Alaska.

– Garima Saxena

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