There’s this sense of urgency that dawns over me whenever I think about Death.
An urgency that warms my chest everytime, a micro heart-attack, almost similar to when I don’t feel my phone in my pocket.

Constant reminders of Death exhort me, like a crowd cheering an Olympic runner who tripped miserably, to be productive by motivating me to extract as much as of my time as I possibly can.
As dark as it may sound, Death, to me, is the strongest incentive to do something.
The strongest incentive to do something is the regret of not doing it!
And this is one thing I’m seriously afraid of, what if I don’t have enough time to try out all the interesting things in this world.
As a matter of fact, there actually isn’t enough time to try out all the interesting things, and people around me are so lively that I usually forget about this urgency, this ultimate statistic, that 10 out of 10 people die. And birthdays come handy, as constant reminders of my death, a constant reminder of my limited time.

It is here that dark humour comes into play.
Having a ghoulish, morbid sense of humour is, in my understanding, a mirthful, tragicomic goldmine. Be it self-depreciation or ugly dysphemisms, they act as frequent light-hearted reminders of the shortage of time.
Cracking such dark jokes elicit some humour, but also leave a taint on the mind, making a lasting impression of the insight or epiphany.
Although this usually leads me into undesirable situations with friends, where I become a spoilsport for cracking lame-ass dark jokes in a rather enthusiastic environment, I still believe in the idea of positive macabre (weird oxymoron, right?) and I feel it has guided me correctly and helped me made a lot of important decisions which otherwise would have been onerous dilemmas.