Some Notes On Modernity
Look at the man in the cluttered twenty-first century. His is a life of barely-accessible space; his children packed into schools with thousands of other little saber-rattlers; his every financial transaction tracked with numbers; his every move reported in the news; his every sojourn recorded by GPS receivers and monitored by satellites. But is this a life? Is it a life to live in a city that never sleeps, in buildings that climb half a mile into the skies?
Look at them. Look straight into their eyes and try to gauge what it is that they are thinking about. His wife is not the same woman he married; his child is not his child anymore; he has been recast as an actor in a grand play, living only for the sake of others, having no time for himself or for anything else. And now he has lost even this, for what? For what? So he can earn more money so that he can spend more money? Is this life? Is this life? Or is there something else out there beyond our comprehension, something we can’t seem to do anything about except watch as it gradually changes everything we stand for and have ever held dear?
No one is ever quite prepared for the day when he realises that he has unwittingly crossed into the shadow of the abyss. The experience is profoundly unsettling, for it means that there is an aspect of existence which is incomprehensible to human reason. No matter how hard you try, you cannot escape from the fact that there exists an element of the unknown, something primal, which makes you wonder if even your most sacred beliefs are purely imaginary. How can you possibly explain something when it opens up a door to that which lies beyond death? Inevitably, this discovery puts an end to any further attempts to understand the world around us. It is simply too terrible a chasm to be swallowed.
Death. The bane of many mortal existences When mentioned, it evokes a grim shudder, like a plucked string, from the minds of those who hear it. It is the beginning of knowledge and the end of understanding, the last breath inhaled as we open our eyes for the first time. It is the culmination of life’s suffering and the beginning of eternity. Yet for all its power and meaning, it remains only a transition from one state to another. We are born, live our lives, and then die. Death is but a decorative border between two states of consciousness; one ending, another beginning. Why, then, is this simple fact so feared? Why do we create inventions of immortality and spend our days and nights seeking ways to defy death? Could it be that we are afraid of dying — our memories, our legacy left behind — that without them we have nothing to preserve us? If so, then we are fortunate to have the least worst form of escapism: love.
But what happens when the graves give up their dead? When we hear the voices in the dark? When do the shadows seem both stronger and more frightening than the fragile things they cover? How long before our fear of death takes hold of us? And when we reach that stage of fear and madness, what should we do then? Will we give up our sanity to become one of the walking corpses who break through our television screens and movie theatre doors? Or will we find the resolve to fight back, even with nothing but our words to protect us?
All we have is a moment. Over the raging thunder of an explosive sun, we are born again and again. From the ashes of our burnt souls, we come back to fight, each and every day. The eyes of children stare eagerly into our own with the hope that one day we might teach them. Some say it’s a meaningless charade; that it doesn’t matter what we do, for tomorrow we might be gone. But I disagree. Our efforts do matter, for they are proof to both ourselves and others that we are worthy of living.
We fight to live, because in the end, we have nothing else. Our lives move through days that have never been, days unbounded by human sight. Yet, we live on. Our hearts beat with the pulse of an indomitable will and the spirit of a beast. We are the shadow of our ancestors, who prowled this earth with their own wits and strength to keep them alive. It is what separates us from all else, and in death, it is our legacy.
Like a flower, we blossom, opening up to the sun before closing at the end of the day. We are ephemeral beings, bearing nothing of value to mankind. We die in obscurity and are soon forgotten, save for a few children who will one day die too. The cycle continues as it has for eons. And yet, we carry on. Why? Because we know no other way. And how long will this continue? As long as the hearts of men remain open. How long before our bodies betray us and our minds shatter like crystal? As long as we remain true to ourselves.
Death is a veil, which binds our temporal and earthly flesh to the eternal realm. We are born into this world with nothing, and when we move on, we take nothing with us. All our experiences, all our actions, are stored in the fabric of reality. The memories of our minds become the foundation for false utopias, relived by others through the warping of their own perception. These memories are immortal; they can never be destroyed. For this reason, it is essential that we devote our existence to creating memories worth remembering.
My lips are sealed. For what right have I to judge? What truly matters at the end of our days is not what we have done, but what remains after it is done.
