It is strange and fascinating that our finitude is so fucking scary, when that’s all we know, all we are. Finite creatures living finite lives with finite feelings.
But when I really sit down and contemplate infinity, the truth is sitting in an open box staring up at me: I am not afraid of death, but rather, what comes after.
Love wears so many masks on this planet that it has become hard to see its true nature. And I know your issues with objectivity, but if there is any person on this planet that doesn’t believe love is simultaneously finite and infinite, they have not loved anyways, and this will all be irrelevant to them. Love is like death, because it is a surrender. Most love is selfish, and thus, by definition, not really love at all. But real love is an adventure, it is the risk—a taking-off of clothing, a peeling-back of the layers, a leaving-of-the-comfort-zone. A willingness to open the potential for loss, for heartbreak, for an absolutely reckless tragedy. It is a relinquishing of the self, the returning of the soul. This is why I think people see love like death.
To be vulnerable. To be transparent and open. To share one’s self is merely the beginning of death. But it ends with the loss of self. And to give up one’s self only happens twice in every person’s life:
In love and At Death.
But if you know love, you know it’s worth losing everything. Even if it means losing that which you love, because love isn’t about possession, or usefulness, or necessity.
Love is about dying. And strangely, love might also be about being alive—about dying and living all at once. Because Love is the only source of that edge-of-your-seat, authentic life that exists.
It has nothing to do with dating, commitment, or romance. Love is the root of the root of every tree. It is the moon and the sun and all the stars. It is the light that grows the Earth and the Dark that veils it. It is the death, the one death, that culminates with real life.
It’s normal to be scared of what we do not know. But I tell you, I am not afraid of death, only what comes after.
There is an old story from the early civilizations in Asia.
In the story a traveler meets a skull and laments for the death of the human to whom it belonged. But the skull quickly replies, “Who are you to think that life is better than death?”
I will always choose death, over life. The unknown is worth every risk, and I have yet to die.