How close to death must man be before he starts living as if life will last forever?
“You only have a few months left,” she’s told, and suddenly there’s more life to her, and more to her life, than ever.
We fear death, but we don’t. It’s not death itself that’s terrifying.
Most of us have more trouble falling asleep every night than we’ll have fading out to nothingness.
It’s not the death of the body, but the end of meaning, that is bothersome.
The pain that no matter how memorable you make yourself, memory itself will cease to be.
The pain is that pain is there for no reason but itself. So is happiness, perfectly pointless. Perfectly okay.
And so we hurt, and we torture ourselves hoping it will matter.
Life will never willingly trade freedom for meaning, unless it is beaten, battered and bruised into submission.
Even then, it will beg of you “please do not poison me with meaning. I don’t need to matter. I need to be free.”
There is such power in uniting with our ephemeral immortality.
Who is there, and what is there left to fear when you have come to love your own meaninglessness?