On Mortality

Whilst the rejoinder of one’s individual consciousness with the greater universe may prompt a sense of fear and disquiet there is no inherent and objective reason why this should be so.

Followers of determinism may draw solace from the belief that the infinitely complex sequence of events occurring before the fact, make the fact itself, both broadly speaking and within its specific frame of reference, inevitable. This is by no means without merit.

Followers of particular faith or theology may well draw a similar sense of comfort in the belief that there may in fact be a wonderful, comfortable and eternal chair resting in some supernatural realm, whereupon they can enjoy a serene and restful view of creation. Perhaps there may be a wise bearded fellow about, or tall winged blonde women with large bosoms. What this worldview lacks in logic, it more than makes up for in optimism and sentimental appeal.

Now, permit me a little whimsical, rhetorical meta-phrasing, for it is at about this point in the response where one surely asks oneself “What is the best way to view the phenomenon of death through an anarcho-dandyist perspective?”, or in more vain if not precise terms “What would the good Audacious Barrington Huxley etc. advise under these circumstances?”

The answer to this question is diabolically simple. If one takes the famous assertion of Sally Bowles as gospel, namely that “life is a cabaret”, the deep murky intricacies of existence become crystal clear. The curtain call must be seen as inescapable, and to a degree fortunate, for the rigours of the stage doth tax us all. With this in mind, the focus now shifts.

What we most focus on is our life, which may or may not be under our control. To return briefly once more to the ideology of determinism, the concept of free will may be a dicey one. Whilst improvisation on stage may be possible with the marvellously wonderful piece of chemical biology that is our brain, it is more than possible that all of our actions and dialogue may in fact be running to the script of a particularly pedantic playwright. Whether or not this is the case cannot at this stage be known, but regardless of facts, the impression that we are in fact agents of our own destiny does in fact impart one with a certain hope and reassurance.

Once again, despite yet another gnawing existential assertion, we must still live our lives. Returning once again to the extended cabaret metaphor our raison d’etre must, all things considered, be to acquit ourselves well upon life’s stage. If there is any meaning in life it must be to sing the most beautiful song, finger a sweet melody, dance with grace and panache, to carve out the most stunning stage presence that one can, and play an integral role in the plot of the narrative that we have chosen to take up, before the stain curtains of eternity glide effortlessly across the lacquered floorboards of our Earth, and the applause of an adoring audience sees us off stage.

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