My labored breathing struggles to find a rhythm as I toss and turn in my bed. Comfort twists through my shoulders as I find a restful position on my back, the most difficult position for me to breathe. A cold thought wriggles into my warm sheets: what if I close my eyes, and they never open again? Would I be satisfied with the life I’ve lived, if this is where it ended?

I’ve been thinking about death a lot lately.

Last week, Akira Toriyama, the famed artist behind Dragon Quest, Dragon Ball, and Dr. Slump, suddenly passed away. He was 68, young by most modern opinions, but although he left this world earlier than anticipated, no one could argue how impactful his works were in the world of manga, and beyond. I am not unique in saying that Toriyama ‘s works, particularly the Dragon Ball series, had a huge impact on me as a kid. While Dragon Ball wasn’t my first anime, my interest in animation blossomed watching the show about the fighters with the spikey hair with my older brother. I knew Dragon Ball had a huge following in the west, but seeing the outpouring of so many people mourning Toriyama’s death still caught me by surprise. His work meant a lot of things to a lot of different people, and it’s wild to me to imagine some of the franchises I’m familiar with, like One Piece, found inspiration in Toriyama’s work as well. To call his portfolio “seminal” would be an understatement.

In a statement posted to social media, manga artist Tite Kubo, wrote that because Toriyama’s work inspired him and because they eventually started working at the same magazine, this death felt different than the usual melancholy that comes with such news. He went on to write that Toriyama’s passing filled him with emptiness rather than sadness, saying that as long as a creator’s work still exists, a part of them hasn’t yet died. Kubo isn’t the first person I’ve encountered who shares this thinking; when the art outlives the artist, it begins to carry on a life of its own. As long as his works continue to be read and celebrated, leaving an impression on their audience, a part of Toriyama is still alive. True death comes when that is forgotten.

In my most depressed state, I experimented with my consciousness, and I found comfort, more or less, in realizing so much of what makes me me are thoughts and emotions spurred on by chemical impulses. Depending on your perspective, it can be scary or heartening to think that our minds, complicated as they are, are an ongoing chemical reaction. The human body allegedly replaces all of its cells every seven years; can we really say that we’re the same people we used to be in the past? I think people experience those tiny deaths when they forget an idea. That feeling of something being on the tip of one’s tongue, the frustration of not being able to recollect; when a part of the brain sends a message that isn’t remembered, surely it dies. It isn’t the most encouraging idea, considering how common strokes and the memory loss that comes with them are in my family. But still, I wonder if death, the true death that we will each meet at our own time, is simply forgetting how to live.

Like Kubo, I also feel that one’s life is enriched by sharing works that leave a meaningful impact on others. He may take it more literally than I do, but I subscribe to the idea that art allows our ideas to outlast our lifespans. No one gets to see their score card when they die. You don’t sleep with the knowledge of how long you lived, or how many hearts you touched. If I died today, I wouldn’t be satisfied. There are so many feelings I still need to communicate. So why, then, do I feel so much creative inertia?

Pale light filters through the window shades of my bedroom. Birds tweet against the patter of sprinkling rain. Despite all the stress, I still haven’t forgotten yet.