Death is so feared that people can’t even talk about how insignificant it is without comparing it to itself. In “Death, be not proud,” John Donne declares that “even death shall die.” Death comes full circle. It’s like using a word in its own definition; meaningless. No matter how brave and comfortable one is with their own mortality, death is still the ultimate, omega, end. This exercise of trying to erase the eraser is meaningless. It’s like “biting your own teeth.” It’s an ouroboros that only reveals how fragile we are. Death is what it is. I’m going to die. So are you. We may not capable of being be okay with it, but that doesn’t matter.
This nihilist view comes off as dark and indicative of a mental defect. I once made the mistake of sharing some of these ideas with my mother and her evident concern swiftly ended that exercise. Whether or not I actually suffer from a neurochemical problem is beside the point, but I find a lot of comfort in my understanding of death. When faced with the riddle of comprehending the end of my corporeal existence, my personal solution was a peaceful acceptance that leaves my emotional capacity much freer for other pursuits, like maintaining relationships, developing my art, or simply focusing on getting through each day. Maybe I’m a short sighted hypocrite, but at least I’m living.
- Mikayla ᎡᎶᎯ Hodge
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