Posted 04 November 2013 - 04:19 PM
In a way, the "death" - or at least the coma - of the forum almost is an analog or metaphor for the thread itself.
"We" get used to something and then it's gone.
A parent, a friend... and "we" then wonder what happened, where did he/she/it go after the "shutdown."
It's interesting how each of us responding to the forum "glitch" will tend to automatically respond rather differently to the same circumstance, and would tend to wonder differently "where did it go."
Honestly, it's an interesting combination of circumstances that brought the forum failure simultaneous with the death of a thread on "what happens when" one is dead.
The truly interesting thing might not be so much the differing belief systems, but the different way in which individuals respond to loss of something/someone they've become used to - and what to blame.
Forget the actual loss of one's ongoing being, if you will, and consider this only as response to the forum's weekend outage. We are, after all, each of us part of this forum's "being."
To be, or not to be, that is the question:
Whether 'tis Nobler in the mind to suffer
The Slings and Arrows of outrageous Fortune,
Or to take Arms against a Sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them: to die, to sleep
No more; and by a sleep, to say we end
The Heart-ache, and the thousand Natural shocks
That Flesh is heir to? 'Tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep,
To sleep, perchance to Dream; Aye, there's the rub,
For in that sleep of death, what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause. There's the respect
That makes Calamity of so long life:
For who would bear the Whips and Scorns of time,
The Oppressor's wrong, the proud man's Contumely,
The pangs of despised Love, the Law’s delay,
The insolence of Office, and the Spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his Quietus make
With a bare Bodkin? Who would Fardels bear, ("bodkin," think dagger; "fardel" think heavy backpack)
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscovered Country, from whose bourn
No Traveller returns, Puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have,
Than fly to others that we know not of.
Thus Conscience does make Cowards of us all,
And thus the Native hue of Resolution
Is sicklied o'er, with the pale cast of Thought,
And enterprises of great pitch and moment,
With this regard their Currents turn awry,
And lose the name of Action.