Тонкое искусство пофигизма

           Isthisit?

           Mybodyshudders,thefearbecomingeuphoricandblinding.Ifocusmymindandclearmythoughtsinakindofmeditation.Nothingmakesyoupresentandmindfullikebeingmereinchesawayfromyourowndeath.Istraightenupandlookoutagain,andfindmyselfsmiling.Iremindmyselfthatit’sallrighttodie.

           Thiswillingandevenexuberantinterfacingwithone’sownmortalityhasancientroots.TheStoicsofancientGreeceandRomeimploredpeopletokeepdeathinmindatalltimes,inordertoappreciatelifemoreandremainhumbleinthefaceofitsadversities.InvariousformsofBuddhism,thepracticeofmeditationisoftentaughtasameansofpreparingoneselffordeathwhilestillremainingalive.Dissolvingone’segointoanexpansivenothingness—achievingtheenlightenedstateofnirvana—isseenasatrialrunoflettingoneselfcrosstotheotherside.EvenMarkTwain,thathairygoofballwhocameinandleftonHalley’sComet,said,“Thefearofdeathfollowsfromthefearoflife.Amanwholivesfullyispreparedtodieatanytime.”

           Backonthecliff,Ibenddown,slightlyleaningback.Iputmyhandsonthegroundbehindmeandgentlylowermyselfontomybutt.Ithengraduallyslideonelegovertheedgeofthecliff.There’sasmallrockjuttingoutofthecliffside.Irestmyfootonit.ThenIslidemyotherfootofftheedgeandputitonthesamesmallrock.Isitthereamoment,leaningbackonmypalms,windrufflingmyhair.Theanxietyisbearablenow,aslongasIstayfocusedonthehorizon.