The great minds of yore would ponder. Whether it was Nietzsche or even Hobbes, they philosophized about death more than anything, more than even their shitty lives. And then the Absurdist movement was de rigueur in the 60s, which gave us nice works of art, movies, Camus and Sartre. It was all about death and how living is worse than it. And the old adage still holds true. Aren’t we just traipsing along until the end finally befalls us, in whichever manner we dread? Aren’t we just waiting for our own death knell? Well, I guess it depends on your quality of life, and what those assumptions about death would cost you, in terms of joie-de-vivre and cash.
Death is the end, that’s all there is to it. Just like we’ve marketed love and grief, we’ve done the same thing to death to assuage our pecuniary desires. And as a result, this mindless concoction of apocryphal truths weighs heavily on our conscience. Just like, having no money does. Just like, being a virgin does. Because we’re made to think about it, to hint at it even when we’re in the best of moods, even when nothing should steal our thunder. But then your tv screen lights up to the generic tune of the moment, the empty people regurgitating their spiel, and you don’t really give a fuck but it lingers in your mind. It tells you, hey Joe, you’re gonna die soon. Go to the gym Joe. Get a girl before you die Joe. Just do it.
But Death is not sad, it’s only sad when it happens without your consent. Because we’re all going to die, regardless of our lofty ideas about ourselves, regardless of our values and food habits. In a way, we all consent to it in the end. Maybe even before the end. Because when you think, your mind reminds you that every past moment is a facsimile of the inevitable. A harbinger of death.