(Copied and pasted from my response to someone else's journal entry. I'm not reposting it here for any particular reason; it doesn't mean I'm doing any significant thinking about death. Rather, just because it just seemed so profound.)
I think I've made my peace with the idea of physical death as return to the void. (Of course, there's no way to test that short of staring it in the face. I can only offer the best results of my introspection here.)
And, having made my peace with the possibility (or likelihood) that the void awaits and anything to the contrary really might be a tidy piece of evolutionary psychology, I have embraced said "evolutionary psychology" (or at least one particular and deeply felt interpretation of it) with a passion.
It's the only sane choice.
Staring at the void is transformative; living on the edge is not. If what we do in this life matters even a whit, then we have a moral duty to ourselves to get as much out of life as we can. And you just can't live when the smelly demon dog of darkness is pissing on your leg all the time. Even if he really is sitting in the corner, grinning patiently and waving his fecal-smelling tentacles, the only sane course of action is to ignore him. Run, shout, devour, fly, fuck; take awe from the sacred, take pleasure from the profane, endure pain from the unholy.
And then, when he catches up to you, one night, in some dark alley, smile and say, "If you're here for me, then you catch everyone, sooner or later. I couldn't have escaped you if I'd spent my life running, or deterred you if I'd spent it begging. So I did the best I could, and, dammit, you may not be keeping score, but as far as I'm concerned, I won."