People say eighty years is a lot. To me it's not a horizon — it's a prison fence.
Maybe they find life exhausting because it's exhausting to hide death from your life?
There are people who spend their whole lives shoving death into a closet in the hallway. Entire countries do this. I live in a good country, where you can afford to hide death. I like it here. I'm not leaving. But I refuse the closet that comes bundled with the good life.
A golf course is a gorgeous way to not think. Eighteen holes of trimmed nothing. Every blade of grass cut to say: everything is fine here, nothing rots here, the only thing that disappears is the ball, and you know where it went.
People walk around smooth. You can talk about games, bench press, portfolio returns, and underneath all of it a hum — a low-frequency hum of effort, like a fridge about to break down. The effort of not looking.
I have a kitchen, a table, two chairs, a German Shepherd under the table. And death by the opposite wall. The dog sniffs at it sometimes, then lies back down.
I'm sick of hiding death. It stands in the middle of my room. And it's a relief, because I no longer have to worry whether I've hidden it well enough. Other people — it sticks out everywhere and they stress about it. They think no one can see it — but everyone can, they're just too polite to say.
When death is in the middle of the room, the heaviest thing is in plain sight. This is the bottom. There is no worse thought. And the bottom is solid — you can push off from it. Everything makes sense at once. What's urgent, what matters, what you can skip. All the furniture arranges itself around it.
Closest to death I keep love, also uncovered. I love people and I know they will die. Both of these things are in my room at the same time. I look at those I love and I see how in twenty or thirty years, maybe less, I'll be sitting next to that hospital bed, the hallway will smell of bleach and something synthetically warm, and I'll be holding a hand. And I won't be ashamed of a single conversation, because I don't talk bullshit now. When death is sitting by the wall — it's very hard to make small talk in its presence. People regret that for years they talked bullshit to each other.
People on the golf course have a falsely infinite horizon, so everything is equally important. If you hide death, it seems like nothing will ever end. Under false infinity every conversation is a rough draft. You'll say it tomorrow, call next week, get to it eventually. And then the bed comes, and it turns out you spent your whole life rehearsing a conversation that never happened.
Death in the room is not a friend or a teacher. It is an enemy I refuse to underestimate.
The one who looks at death — who looks at it in the kitchen — is closer to real immortality than the one who plays at it on trimmed grass. That gaze is the only thing that produces enough fury to fund the science, demand the policy, dig.
When death is in the room I breathe easier. It smells like a thunderstorm. Finally, down to business. Enough politeness in the face of catastrophe.
Take death with you to the office and show it your to-do list. Take death to the bathroom and ask it how you look. Take death by the hand and show it a five-star hotel or a Michelin restaurant.
Put death in the middle of the room. Let it stand.
In its presence you can see those you love. You see the clock. And you see there's no time for eighteen holes. We are practically dead compared to how long and deeply it's possible to live. The clock needs to be stopped.
People say eighty years is a lot. To me it's not a horizon — it's a prison fence.
Maybe they find life exhausting because it's exhausting to hide death from your life?
There are people who spend their whole lives shoving death into a closet in the hallway. Entire countries do this. I live in a good country, where you can afford to hide death. I like it here. I'm not leaving. But I refuse the closet that comes bundled with the good life.
A golf course is a gorgeous way to not think. Eighteen holes of trimmed nothing. Every blade of grass cut to say: everything is fine here, nothing rots here, the only thing that disappears is the ball, and you know where it went.
People walk around smooth. You can talk about games, bench press, portfolio returns, and underneath all of it a hum — a low-frequency hum of effort, like a fridge about to break down. The effort of not looking.
I have a kitchen, a table, two chairs, a German Shepherd under the table. And death by the opposite wall. The dog sniffs at it sometimes, then lies back down.
I'm sick of hiding death. It stands in the middle of my room. And it's a relief, because I no longer have to worry whether I've hidden it well enough. Other people — it sticks out everywhere and they stress about it. They think no one can see it — but everyone can, they're just too polite to say.
When death is in the middle of the room, the heaviest thing is in plain sight. This is the bottom. There is no worse thought. And the bottom is solid — you can push off from it. Everything makes sense at once. What's urgent, what matters, what you can skip. All the furniture arranges itself around it.
Closest to death I keep love, also uncovered. I love people and I know they will die. Both of these things are in my room at the same time. I look at those I love and I see how in twenty or thirty years, maybe less, I'll be sitting next to that hospital bed, the hallway will smell of bleach and something synthetically warm, and I'll be holding a hand. And I won't be ashamed of a single conversation, because I don't talk bullshit now. When death is sitting by the wall — it's very hard to make small talk in its presence. People regret that for years they talked bullshit to each other.
People on the golf course have a falsely infinite horizon, so everything is equally important. If you hide death, it seems like nothing will ever end. Under false infinity every conversation is a rough draft. You'll say it tomorrow, call next week, get to it eventually. And then the bed comes, and it turns out you spent your whole life rehearsing a conversation that never happened.
Death in the room is not a friend or a teacher. It is an enemy I refuse to underestimate.
The one who looks at death — who looks at it in the kitchen — is closer to real immortality than the one who plays at it on trimmed grass. That gaze is the only thing that produces enough fury to fund the science, demand the policy, dig.
When death is in the room I breathe easier. It smells like a thunderstorm. Finally, down to business. Enough politeness in the face of catastrophe.
Take death with you to the office and show it your to-do list. Take death to the bathroom and ask it how you look. Take death by the hand and show it a five-star hotel or a Michelin restaurant.
Put death in the middle of the room. Let it stand.
In its presence you can see those you love. You see the clock. And you see there's no time for eighteen holes. We are practically dead compared to how long and deeply it's possible to live. The clock needs to be stopped.