Meditating on Dying Tomorrow
Every time I bite into a chicken nugget, I am only ever thinking about that chicken nugget.
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A comet as fire as the penguins on TikTok hurdles towards Earth. It glides at a speed so fast that its impact will generate a tide of catastrophic energy, cueing the end of life as we know it. Space experts on big screens and small screens urge people to find their loved ones — our obliteration is only a few hours away. No one is on social media, except for a few influencers and celebrities who believe that the experts are exaggerating, and the “supposedly” apocalypse is the prime opportunity for content.
I sit in my apartment in Mexico City, drinking the last oat milk latte I will ever drink, and smile in a plane of serenity that feels similar to my first time at Disneyland, walking beneath the spectacular gates with an Egg McMuffin stuffed in my mouth, a theme song blaring through bright speakers that reminded me of In the Stone by Earth, Wind, and Fire, a song that was queued in my mom’s car every morning, as though 70s funk was her religion and I her disciple.
The coffee dissolves the details of my apartment into a dark chestnut canvas, toasty and warm, that then emerges, taste bud by taste bud, into a lush farm in Hawaii. The dense scent of soil awakens my skin. An early sun paws the horizon. Little birds flutter and sing, lost in the brush of the jungle.
The oat milk is sweet, nutty, and full, almost the same texture as the silk pillow I bought a few days ago after seeing an ad on Instagram that said sleeping with a silk pillow would keep me young forever, back when I still thought looking young in forty years was something I should still care about. I smile, I breathe, and release every muscle in my body.
This is how I imagine myself if I knew that I only had one day left. Of course, it is remiss of several important things: the fact that I would first seek out my family and friends, dance around the streets naked to my favorite song, and indulge myself in the most lavish versions of my favorite drinks: kombucha, hazy IPAs, natural wine, and campari with champagne. It is also remiss of the fact that I would probably, at first, sprint around like a manic chicken, attempting to nurse an initial panic attack fueled by the suspicion that the mega-rich knew something we didn’t know, because we all know that if the world were ending the mega-rich would have known about it for a minute, and that they’d have an escape route they were keeping for themselves. Although, I suppose, they have known about it for fifty years (global warming) and are planning an escape route (Mars).
Shady, mega-rich hoes aside, I have been thinking — lately and often — what decisions I would make if I knew that my life were ending the next day. And I always come to the same conclusion: I would be here, exactly where I am. I would spend time with the people I love, call my family, and, most importantly, notice the life that I am living — the life that I have been living this entire time. I consider my figurative death most when I notice that I am moving through the world like a thoughtless fish, darting through the ocean with no sense of purpose, nor the brain cells to recognize the beauty around them.
I think, sometimes, and perhaps too often, we all live like fish. The structures we exist in (late capitalism, neo-capitalism, whatever you want to call it) program us to evaluate our days by what we got done and measure our time by the amount we have left to achieve. We are taught to be do-ers, not be-ers. As a Capricorn moon, I seek solace in the rigid lines of my calendar and organize my weekdays by the hour, attempting to domesticate the gargantuan hopes and dreams of my Aquarius sun, hopes and dreams that consistently change, the only consistent thing about my Gemini rising.
Translation for old people: I demand a lot of myself, and I often find myself rushing through life, looking at what time I need to do X in order to achieve Y.
Work items 1–3 at 8:00AM, meeting at 9:00AM, work items 4–9 at 10:00AM, gym at 12:00PM, but make sure you’re home at 1:00PM for the next call, and then finish work items 10–15 right after the call, but be sure to give yourself a break to write your book at 3:00PM, because if you’re not writing your book how do you expect to ever be a published writer!? And make sure you start working again at 4:00PM because AIN’T NONE OF THIS WRITING PAYING THOSE BILLS, and you know you like to run up those bills with bougie meals and trips to the airport as if you’re the culturally-diverse reincarnation of Sarah Jessica Parker, so make SURE you work until 7:30PM, you’re an EXCELLER, you’re an ACHIEVER, but stop at 7:30PM on the dot because you need to give yourself a half-hour window to eat dinner and get ready before meeting your friends at 8:00PM, which is the most important part of the day — because without community you’d be STRESSY AND DEPRESSY, and we don’t want that, because if you’re stressy and depressy you can’t perform — but also you CANNOT forget that you need to practice your Spanish before you go to sleep at 10:00PM, because if you’re not learning Spanish while living in Mexico City then YOU DON’T DESERVE TO LIVE PUTA! It’s already been a year and a half since you started learning and you can’t even have a meaningful conversation with a stranger!!?? How do you expect to build community — the most important aspect of life — if you can’t speak fluent Spanish in Mexico? No mames guey, estas deprimente. But hey, make sure you’re present when you’re with your friends, because that’s the most, most, most important part of life. Hey — HEY! DID YOU HEAR ALL OF THAT? IT’S ALREADY 8:12AM AND YOU HAVEN’T STARTED WORKING. YOU’RE GOING TOO SLOW!
But if the world were ending the next day, who gives a f*ck about your calendar, or the book you want to publish, or the latest entree of b*llshit your boss served you at work? This is not to say that meditating on dying the next day makes me realize that I don’t want to do anything. Of course, I want to do all of the things my life entails, and I still can. It’s simply telling me to let go of the demanding membrane I build around them, the stress of “need” and “have to,” the anxiety I feel when I tell myself I don’t have enough time, and to replace it all with the calm of “be,” because it’s not all that serious.
I can be where I am: working my job in my cute little room, writing my book with a cozy cup of coffee, exercising the muscles and tendons that let me dance, climb, and jump. I can really be who I am where I am, in my body, living my life. It seems painfully obvious, and it’s crazy that it’s something I need to remind myself of, but I think we all do at times. Meditating on dying tomorrow tells me that the ultimate form of living is to experience it as it is happening. Living here, now, is the most that we have, and it is more than enough — beautiful, textured, and weird — once we pause to rest in its shape and breathe in its rhythm.
If the world were ending the next day, the voice in my head would not call me a puta, nor scream in all caps. It would say:
Hey, look at that flower! Isn’t it beautiful that this city is built like a garden? Trees and monstera leaves stretching out of the soil… Welcome home bb! It’s crazy that you’re living here, remember the first time you visited? You said you wanted to live here, and now you do! Wow! Hello neighbor! I wonder what he’s thinking about. I wonder what he’s feeling. I wonder what things he dreamt of as a kid. Wow, this elevator was made by someone — isn’t that crazy? People used their hands to build this building, and this door, and this floor. Ooh, let’s make a smoothie. Smoothie time! Smoo — smoo — smoo — smoo — YAAAAAS queen! Move those hips, you’re a fucking star! DAYUM this is the best smoothie you’ve EVER MADE! CONGRATULATIONS! Let’s make one for our friends too. YOU GET A SMOOTHIE! YOU GET A SMOOTHIE! God I love my friends, look at them lay on the couch all cute and shi — I’m so happy that we’re all here together, at this moment, no matter where we are in ten or twenty years, maybe different countries, maybe chained down by some disgusting, little brat kids. We’re living in such a precious period of our lives. Though, I suppose we always are.
