MEMENTO MORI

 Two days ago, I received a dreadful phone call — my high school best friend was dead.

I was devastated. For a few minutes, I was numb. We all react to death in different ways. For me, it usually hits after a few months, not when it happens.

I’ve spent time thinking — about him, the memories we shared, the kind of life he led, how he must be feeling wherever he is now, and whether the end was easier on him than his life.

Most of all, I can’t help but think of my own death. It’s a scary topic, but just because it’s scary doesn’t mean we shouldn’t confront it.

Death is the most mysterious stage of life. It watches us from a distance, creeping us out just enough to remind us of its power, yet waiting until we are oblivious to it before striking. And when it comes, it does so in one fell swoop, leaving those who love us in unimaginable anguish.

I’ve had discussions about death with many people, and most pretend to grasp its gravity — but I see right through their bullshit. Nobody is truly prepared for death unless they’ve been constantly thinking about it or are contemplating suicide.

William Saroyan once said, “Everybody has got to die, but I have always believed an exception would be made in my case.”

Death is a beast — the kind we prepare for all our lives, yet when the time comes to face it, we end up dead.

Woody Allen put it well: “I’m not afraid of death; I just don’t want to be there when it happens.”

Witty, yet full of fear. And can you blame him?

Stephen Hawking once said, “I’m not afraid of death, but I’m in no hurry to die. I have so much I want to do first.”

Derek Jarman added, “I am not afraid of death, but I am afraid of dying.”

Think about it — death is probably the only experience we hear about constantly. People can have twenty weddings at the same location, and it won’t make the news. But one man kills his girlfriend, and suddenly, we’re bombarded with it.

Our neighbors and family members die all the time; you’d think we’d be used to the monster by now. But it doesn’t work like that.

We experience death from afar, and it takes a lot for us to truly imagine ourselves dead — probably because we’ve never died before. It’s easy to picture ourselves in love, rich, or sick, because we’ve at least felt glimpses of those things.

The only time we truly appreciate death is when we have a near-death experience or when it claims someone close to us — a parent, a spouse, a best friend, a sibling.

We spend most of our lives trapped in our minds — dwelling on the past, fantasizing about the future — without taking the time to savor the present. We forget that we don’t have forever on this planet; we are on borrowed time.

But when we come face-to-face with death — when we survive something that could have killed us — we suddenly understand its power. We internalize its inevitability, and only then do we begin living with the urgency life demands.

Which brings us to our title: memento mori. It’s a Latin phrase that means “remember you will die.” The full saying goes, “Memento mori, memento vivere” — “Remember you will die, remember to live.”

The Stoics embraced this idea, using it to accept the things they couldn’t change. Their entire philosophy is about ‘faking’ happiness because they have no choice but to accept the flow of the universe. But with this, they were onto something — because there’s no escaping death. It comes for us all, no matter how fast we run. Even if you follow Charlie Munger’s logic — “All I want to know is where I’m going to die so I’ll never go there.” — death will still find you.

Over the past two days, I’ve wondered: Who does this mindset actually help? If I have a sick relative, does memento mori mean I should start mourning them before they even die? That doesn’t seem right to me at all.

By my own extrapolation, I see it like this: I understand that death will come for me. I won’t be the first, and I won’t be the last. It is a passage of life. Whether there is an afterlife or not is none of my concern. I want to enjoy life to the fullest, however I can. I will strive to do the things I want to do — but if death comes for me before then, so be it.

Imagine being a child, playing with your friends, completely immersed in the game — then suddenly, your mother calls you inside, or the sun sets and you have to stop. You didn’t have a choice. That’s death. It doesn’t care how much you’re enjoying life — it will call you, and the darkness will descend.

I don’t want to be like those guys in movies who, after being shot or facing their last moments, gasp, “I’m not ready to die!”

We’ve all heard the quote about living every day as if it’s our last, because one day it will be. But do we truly understand its gravity?

Montaigne wrote in one of his essays: “The premeditation of death is the premeditation of freedom. He who has learned how to die has unlearned how to be a slave.” And I can’t help but agree. Instead of fearing death as an inevitable end, we should anticipate it — not as something to dread, but as something that will find us in the midst of truly living. Now that’s a death I can get behind.

Montaigne also said, “If you don’t know how to die, don’t worry; Nature will tell you what to do on the spot, fully and adequately. She will do this job perfectly for you; don’t bother your head about it.” Self-explanatory, isn’t it?

Heidegger is perhaps the philosopher who spoke most about death. He said, “As soon as we are born, we are old enough to die,” and, “Man dies constantly until the moment of his demise.”

So, what is death to you? How do you react to it — whether it’s a stranger, a close friend, or someone you just knew?

Before my time comes, I’ve vowed to live fully, freely, unapologetically. When that monster comes for me, he will find me laughing in his face. He’ll have no choice but to take me the only way I’m willing to go — on my own terms.

After all, Charles Bukowski said, “Some men never die and some men never live, but we’re all alive tonight.”

RIP, my friend. Till the afterlife — if such nonsense exists.