Тонкое искусство пофигизма

           IrememberstaringintotheblackTexasnightandwatchingmyegoslowlydissolveintoit.Josh’sdeathtaughtmemuchmorethanIinitiallyrealized.Yes,ithelpedmetoseizetheday,totakeresponsibilityformychoices,andtopursuemydreamswithlessshameandinhibition.

           Buttheseweresideeffectsofadeeper,moreprimarylesson.Andtheprimarylessonwasthis:thereisnothingtobeafraidof.Ever.Andremindingmyselfofmyowndeathrepeatedlyovertheyears—whetheritbethroughmeditation,throughreadingphilosophy,orthroughdoingcrazyshitlikestandingonacliffinSouthAfrica—istheonlythingthathashelpedmeholdthisrealizationfrontandcenterinmymind.Thisacceptanceofmydeath,thisunderstandingofmyownfragility,hasmadeeverythingeasier—untanglingmyaddictions,identifyingandconfrontingmyownentitlement,acceptingresponsibilityformyownproblems—sufferingthroughmyfearsanduncertainties,acceptingmyfailuresandembracingrejections—ithasallbeenmadelighterbythethoughtofmyowndeath.ThemoreIpeerintothedarkness,thebrighterlifegets,thequietertheworldbecomes,andthelessunconsciousresistanceIfeelto,well,anything.

           IsitthereontheCapeforafewminutes,takingineverything.WhenIfinallydecidetogetup,Iputmyhandsbehindmeandscootback.Then,slowly,Istand.Icheckthegroundaroundme—makingsurethere’snoerrantrockreadytosabotageme.HavingrecognizedthatIamsafe,Ibegintowalkbacktoreality—fivefeet,tenfeet—mybodyrestoringitselfwitheachstep