The awareness that, at some point, life slips away—and we become inert matter, whose presence may linger a while longer depending on the state of the deceased, but whose life is no longer there—is liberating.
I don’t say this with any thanatophilic sense—a word I learned while reading about life—nor do I admire the fact that life is fading. I speak only from the perspective of someone who knows that, yes, judging by the countless lives that came before mine, by the sample of this vast population, I can affirm with absolute and unequivocal certainty: life, one day, comes to an end. What I have no idea about, however, is where it goes—or whether this life that leaves goes anywhere at all. That, I do not know. Still, I do know that this life that has me, one day, will go.
That said, what’s the rush? Why does it matter if the coffee is slightly bitter? What relevance does that mistake I made here or there really hold? Are the bitterness of the coffee or the significance of the mistake enough to change the course of life? Do you realize that, at some point, this life—which must be worth living—will be gone? Taste the bitterness, get to know it too; learn from the mistake, but neither of these—and not any of the countless other episodes not written here—need to be an inconvenience.
I remember those who are no longer here, who can no longer have a morning coffee or even make mistakes—or get things right, for that matter, though there’s always more to discover. But there’s nothing to be done now; no more action. What would they say about the relevance of life’s distractions? If we’re still here, it’s so that there may be action. That, I’ve concluded, is the essence of the science of death: an incentive to act.
Because, dear reader, as I learned from Sarah, “though those who nearly die are alive, those who nearly live are already dead.”
