The essence of being immortal isn’t about not dying. Rather, it means waking up on a morning 7,000 years from now, walking up to the sink to brush your teeth and knowing that 7,000 years after then, you will still be doing that same act but perhaps using some other toothbrush and some other mirror.
Immortality is an infinity of hot cups of coffee, cutting your toe-nails, getting wet in the rain, saying hello to the neighbours, stroking a cat, snuggling into bed early, spraying semen onto a bathroom tile or into a vagina, getting irritated, tucking your shirt in, slamming doors shut and saying sorry after a sneeze. It is repetition, repetition, repetition, repetition followed by a repetition of everything that was repeated before and then repeating all that once more forever.
Being immortal means living yesterday again and again.
Perhaps death isn’t such a bad thing then. And even if it were, even if death were the most horrifying thing there ever can be, would one choose instead to live on and on? Does not death save one from the endless cycle of waking up, passing away the hours and then trudging back to bed and dreams? Isn’t death the best cure and a better option to the possibility of infinite boredom? Ennui multiplied by n where n equals no-end, no-thing, no-point. Possibly, beings with the gift of immortality learn pretty quickly (which could be thousands of years or a week, it doesn’t matter, not anymore) that this yearned-for gift is in reality the biggest curse of all.
You will perish some day. You are lucky.