I don’t understand why we don’t talk about it. Aren’t we all constantly thinking about it? Maybe we aren’t thinking about it directly, but we’re certainly aware of it at all times.
You can’t cross the street without considering mortality.
I’m fascinated and confused by our culture’s refusal to discuss it. I’ve come to the conclusion that there’s a conspiracy to hide the reality of our existence, covering it up with petty worries like taxes and dieting.
One friend is willing to discuss mortality with me, but recently we’ve been too busy dissecting heartbreak to dive into our mutual, inevitable demise. So, my morbid Jiminy Cricket and I have turned to books.
Combing the contemporary English literature aisle, I came across Thich Nhat Hanh’s No Death, No Fear. Being frugal doesn’t make sense when one is thoroughly aware that money doesn’t follow us to the afterlife, yet I couldn’t bring myself to spend 180,000 Vietnamese Dong ($7.62) on this book.
I left the shop empty-handed, with only a picture of the cover and the intent to one day rent the book from the library. Immediately after leaving the shop, I spent the value of the book on sweet rice puffs and Haribo gummy worms to take to the movies. Instant gratification superseding existential awareness in action!
In time, I realized it wasn’t the content of the book that caught my attention, it was the prospect of being the person who bought No Death, No Fear.
Reviews of the book complained of redundancy in the stories, plus I’ve also exhausted the topic of grief, which seemed to be this text’s focus. I had every good reason not to purchase the book. However, by buying it, would I have been one step closer to casually contemplating death?
The following day, the restaurant below my apartment had an all-you-can-eat vegan buffet. I proudly did damage, three plates, no apologies. The only thing I did faster than finish my food, was finish my current book, Everything I Know About Love by Dolly Alderton.
With my second plate of food and no book to distract me, I started to regret abandoning No Death, No Fear.
Part of me truly wanted to investigate the text. To see if there was something revelatory. But, the real reason I wanted the book was to feed the romantic narrative of eating alone at a buffet and reading about death. The absurdity of this scene appealed much more than a deeper understanding of existence.
If only I’d had that book in my hand, every restaurantgoer present would assume I’m an audacious, curious, fearless woman. As if this melange of odd behaviors would not only communicate my bravery but would also command the attention of every possible onlooker.
Ultimately, I, like everyone else on this planet, want to be noticed. Recently, that desire has manifested itself as daydreaming theatrics that may or may not highlight a faint mania. I blame growing up in an era that idolized Manic Pixie Dream Girls – though that may be a cop-out.
In reality, I had lunch alone at a moderately busy restaurant and spent the entire time daydreaming about myself. The existential conspiracy striking again. Out of all the things I could have worried about, things that matter, things that are slightly easier to tackle than death, I fantasized about being seen. As always, the conspirator is me.
The irony, once the fantasy ended and it was time to leave, I grew worried someone was watching. It’s one thing to eat alone, it’s another to be caught slipping mini mango bonbons into your purse on the way out.
In a flash, the other patrons who once were an audience are now panthers in the jungle and I am their prey. Is this just another roundabout way of considering mortality or have I gone over the edge?
Essie Somma is an artist and freelance writer exploring beauty and difficulty within the human experience. She has been traveling full-time for two years, learning about new places and cultures, and bringing all of her experiences to her work. She feels endlessly grateful for getting to share her work with others.
