This morning I noticed afresh that I was frightened of dying, innocently so. We are innocent and our fear is innocent. As I looked into the mirror, I saw a tired face but something did not recoil. I turned to look outside at the garden tree, bare, hanging Laburnum seeds, and again…no recoil. I was intrigued by this and went outside, shoes in hand to sit on the front doorstep and put them on, looking up at the buildings and sky at the same time, then down at the paving stones, into the cracks where tiny plants and bits of litter were lodged. Again, no recoil. Which brings me to the thought of dying and how it, in some way, leads to a pulling backwards from the senses which otherwise threaten to send us out into this world. Yes, we fall from our senses into the mystery of objects and others and this fearful thought of dying pulls us back from this unbound flight into life.
Thought of Dying: Note on Little Boy
Constant Voice 
…fear of somehow being destroyed and/or changed forever but from death comes something new and an increased sense of connectedness…. perhaps worries about rejection (especially when it comes to other people) contribute to this in some way, I don’t know really, it’s a bit of a mystery this fear.