Stranger to the Dark

Note: Some may find this a bit heavy. Pour a glass of water, have a seat, then dig in.

Someday, I will die.

As will you.

Someday, my parents will die.

As will yours.

Someday, my sisters and brothers, my past and present friends, my past and present romantic partners, my classmates and co-workers and teammates and neighbors—in short, every one of my acquaintances and loved ones on this planet—will die.

As will yours.

-

This is not a hopeful way to begin an essay.

I am deeply aware that I shouldn’t say things like this at all. Not in this country, which does not like to hear it. Where any acknowledgement of death is perceived as a threat and likely to be met with the most virulent response.

But this is not a threat.

And the fact that it is perceived that way is even more reason to state it unequivocally: the central biological fact of our lives is that they end.

Our unwillingness to accept this fact, that we will die, makes it impossible for us to embrace the other central biological fact, which is that we are here now.

In this way, we are not here now. Not really. Instead, our existence is one of endless pursuit. Further west. Into the suburbs. Toward the next big thing.

Because there’s always a bigger house to buy and always a better job to land and always a more luxurious vacation to take.

Because the other beach is more relaxing. Because the neighbor has a newer car. Because we did everything right. And we still don’t feel like we were told we would.

Despite our unceasing quest to be more than this lump of cells, the knowledge of our limitations is always on the periphery.

-

So check the mail, check the paper, check the phone.

Check I meet the last requirement. Check the fund for my retirement.

Preacherman, hit me with a church bell.

Adman, hit me with a hard sell.

Newsman, hit me with a bombshell.

Tell me, Mister Nobel,

Are we caught up in the shrapnel?

Tell me, Mister Orwell,

Is this a sort of death knell?

Tell me that we’re unwell.

Tell me that the sky fell.

But tell me in a nutshell.

Paint it, Mister Rockwell,

But paint it like it’s all swell.

We are desperate for distraction. For someone to grab hold of our attention.

To alter the fact that one day, before we’re ready, it will all come to a crashing halt. Our lungs will stop filling with air. Our chatter will fade to an echo. Our blood will run cold.

We spend our days running from this fate, running from death, and as a result know only a cheap imitation of life.

This leaves us understandably disillusioned. And angry. And this unmitigated anger—which crescendos into violence—sparks confusion in countries across the globe. For they are old nations and have seen death—through war and disaster and the unceasing march of time—up close. In these places, death has come to be understood as a natural stage of life in a way that it has not in these United States.

Because the story of this country—by which I mean the story we like to tell—is one of constant rebirth. Rugged reinvention. Endless growth.

It was once said that the sun never sets on the British Empire. The United States has inherited that epithet. And the price of eternal sunshine is eternal fear of darkness.

-

This is not an abstraction.

For the society afraid of death clings to an illusion that it can control all aspects of life. And such an illusion masquerades in easy answers. Fixes. Ends. It does not care about the means.

So techman, hit me with a Russian bot.

Medman, hit me with a ‘zempic shot.

Warman, hit me with a despot.

Tell me of a hot spot,

Needing everything we got.

Tell me of a new plot.

Take my mind from this rot.

Save me from this crackpot.

Save me from this sorry lot.

Save me from this old knot.

Save me from this slow clot.

Save me from this death trot.

For the society afraid of death clings to an illusion that it can conquer death. For the few with the money to chase it, this becomes an obsession with neural implants and cryogenics and artificial intelligence and colonizing Mars. With living forever.

For the many of us who get up and work a humdrum job—whose every day involves a lot more time in standstill traffic and dealing with an insufferable boss and balancing an impossible budget than all the movies and talking heads advertised—this becomes an obsession with celebrity culture and identity politics. With attaching our individual selves to someone or something else who will live on after us.

-

We recognize that we are on a sinking ship. We see two lifeboats leaving, a rope trailing behind each, and expend all our energy swimming toward the one or the other, cursing those who go the other way. Saying that their boat is leaking air and will never make it.

We never stop to wonder whether, if we would just look to each other, we could find a better way. Build our own vessel from the materials on which we stand. It wouldn’t last forever. But it would at least be there for our kids. So that they can have a stable footing as they improve it for their kids. And their kids on after.

No, it would take a profound act of faith for the inhabitants of this country, of which I am one, to commit to such an uncertain, such a collective, legacy.

For we are short on faith in anything but our individual salvation.

And we hope it’s in the lifeboat.

And we hope it’s in the keynote.

And we hope now for an antidote.

We are ready with our last vote.

We find it easier to buy into the delusion that if we just pass this bill, if we just elect this candidate, if we just hitch ourselves to the right lifeboat, we’ll escape this mess.

There is no escape.

-

There is no one person who’s going to save us.

And there’s no one person to blame.

Though we may wish there was. Though we may act like there is.

We need to imagine another way and start building it.

Because, someday, Donald Trump is going to die.

This is not a threat. I say it with no malice or special knowledge. It’s possible that he lives another decade. Or two. Or three.

But it is a biological fact that he will die.

As is true of Joe Biden.

As is true of Barack Obama.

As is true of every elected official and CEO and superstar athlete and platinum artist.

Every billionaire, as dead as the penniless.

Every cop, as dead as the detained.

Every Goliath, as dead as the Davids.

I’m aware that I shouldn’t say things like this. That, in this current political moment, I’m liable to be put on a watchlist for it. Because it is nothing but an acknowledgement of the natural course of life, but it is no secret that this country does not like to think about its heroes dying.

The secret is that it also doesn’t want its enemies to die.

Because this country knows itself only in its perceived opposite. Without that opposite, without that enemy, it is lost. Left not with a light at the end of the dark tunnel but with a darkness at the end of a bright corridor.

That’s how we arrived here. Perhaps every generation arrives here in some way or another. And perhaps every generation is told, as we are being now, that the only viable path is to retrace these steps in hopes of finding the familiar light.

But we now recognize that at least some part of this path has led us to where we are now. Which is a place we do not wish to be.

We cannot be afraid of passing beyond these worn paths. Not any longer.

We will not forget how we arrived here, but neither can we turn back that way.

We will string a line from where we started and move confidently into the dark.

Our eyes adjusting.

Seeking a new light where we didn’t think there was one.