If there is anyone here who thinks that they personally are not going to die, I invite you to wake up and reignite a thing most primitive in humans which is a fundamental object of their love, of your love: truth. You are going do die. Depend on it. You are not only not going be productive to age 150, you and I, like Socrates and Rand, are going to die probably before age 100. I mean we shall stop existing and not exist through all future time beyond our death. (We shall not pass through any time beyond our death because we shall not exist.) That we lived and what that life consisted of is part of the past through all future time. I mean the fact of our interval of existence. I don’t mean that recognition of the fact will continue through all future time. One of God’s jobs was to remember you through all time, but God failed to exist.
The full explicit acceptance of the fact that you will be falling apart into nonexistence forever can be refreshing and cleansing, rather like figuring out that God does not exist, even though God had been the thing you loved most up until your realization that It did not exist.
Most of us will be entirely forgotten by eight decades after death. It’s OK. That we lived can be enough satisfaction. One’s finite life was its own purpose and significance. Only in human lives are there any long purposes, and any significance in the universe is in such living things. One lived and was a being that made its own existence and perhaps made likenesses of one’s kind (children), made one’s own essence and distinctive principles, one’s own kind of necessity and unity because: one was life itself and life become highly conscious.
The thought that one will reach a last day of life and cease to exist can be terrifying, and I think keeping that terror at bay (in a psychotic way) is a main reason for some major religions, as well as sci-fi projections of never having that day come to one. It will come, and I have a third poem in this vicinty I’d like to also share in this thread:
Once
Against all hours, days, devisings,
radiant axe and warming fire:
Pulse and grasp cease you. You stillness
gone from streams of light, space and time,
gone to snow once touched your flushed face,
to crester-stone once glanced the pond,
to pond, its laps of shore, their sum,
to ice ceiling once you stood upon,
to sky once above all your loves.