Death is a song to which my ears have become accustomed. Scattered bodies and wondering souls have integrated themselves in the every day’s landscape of life.
People giving up on life and human beings being sentenced to death before they are born.
And yet, I am still taken by surprise when I hear about the deaths in Iraq, or read about the massacre in some starving African country.
Death is imminent. And it is this precise imminence that gets me thinking about existence.
In order to die, one must live. Death comes to take away life. This life we have, how have we acquired it?
God breathed the breath of life into man’s nostrils, and it still seems that if it wasn’t for God, or for the fact that breathing is a primarily involuntary action, we wouldn’t taste what being alive is.
So if breathing is involuntary, what role do we play in existing? I cannot recall asking to be born, or pushing myself out of my mother’s womb. I was simply… born. And in life’s arms I remain.
Sort of like a deposit of trust, of faith, from God, from the universe, whatever it may be. We are suddenly made alive. Without a consultation a priori, we are entrusted to live the lives we are given.
The lack of will can be compensated, as history has shown. Once cannot choose to be born, but one can surely decide to die. Even though death is inevitable, we hold the illusionary choice to accelerate the process.
Dying in itself isn’t the solution to the equation. The problem with existing is that it never ends. Because there was never a start. Something has always existed. And so death is merely the end of life as we know it, but our corpses, decomposed, will not evaporate into nothingness. They will simply transform themselves, thus, prolonging their existence.
Does this mean that I have no choice when it comes to my own existence? Is life simply imposed on me?
I was thrown into this game of life. No one agrees on the rules, so I cheat. The game is over for most, sooner than later, but for some… game over is not the end. It’s only a secret gate way, to the next level.
Man is the only animal for whom his own existence is a problem which he has to solve.– Erich Fromm