13 December 2015

I think the reason that our culture is inundated with stories of death and cancer, novels that try to assign some deep value or wisdom to the words of the dying, is because we as humans inherently search for meaning. We look at death as the end of life, and we look at life as the ultimate good because to be alive is to be human, and to be human is to be infinite. And yet, to be human is to be finite, and our lives are bookended with dates inscribed into marble as if that can define a person and the life that they lived. We watch people as they slip from living, breathing lines stretching upwards into infinity like a cubic function and dwindle into silent, lifeless lines, defined by their slope and their x and y value endpoints.

I think it's this view of the infinite becoming finite that disturbs us so much. It reaches into our chest and grips our soul with cold fingers that bring forth thoughts we would rather just forget. We need it to mean something. We need it to mean something because if it means something, it's easier to accept. If we learn from it, it's not evil at all, simply another lesson in a lifetime journey of learning.

The truth is that death doesn't mean anything.

Death simply is. It's not a lesson. It doesn't care what you learn from it. It claims us all but that is a fact, not some deep piece of philosophical mumbo jumbo. The truth is that not everything in life is part of some grand plan to make us into better people. Life is. The only lessons we will learn are the ones we teach ourselves.