“You have to learn how to die, if you wanna be alive” sings Jeff Tweedy of Wilco, backed by jangly guitar music – and every time I hear it, I’m scared a little. Not enough to make me stop or pause but enough to nag at me for a while. I suppose the reason why is one of those things you know but don’t tell yourself in words, because saying it aloud makes it all too real. But what am I scared of, exactly?
To answer that, unoriginal me will draw on another ancillary source of wisdom. Herodotus once said “In soft regions are born soft men”, and what I’m scared of is that I’m soft. Not weak, but soft. I’ve been fortunate enough to be blessed with a life that I’m happy with, a family that supports me, a lifestyle of comfort that gives me a freedom many people wish for. I know that, but what is comfort? Contentment? Is to be content to be stagnant? Stopping to smell the roses is a beautiful moment, but does it mean anything if you just stay there?
And while I ask myself these questions, nipping at my heels are the hungry. I don’t mean those who’ve drawn a bad lot in life – at least not necessarily. I mean those who want… no, those who need to make something of themselves, that burning passion and fire, that hunger. They’re the people who make the world, who create the ability for their own children or families to have the ability of being in my position, with the simple ability to stop and think about things like this.
What drives that hunger? I can’t say for sure, but I think it’s the simple difference between needs and wants. Hunger is a need, a primal need for subsistence. Don’t get it and one becomes ravenous – you find some way to get it or die trying. Go big or go home, and out of the hundreds of millions of people the world puts in that position of desperation, some of them make it to the other side. This subsistence doesn’t have to be a literal one. There are people who cannot live without fulfilling a purpose, or a calling – a gift that curses them to necessity, but blesses them with direction.
And here I am, deciding what I want to do. What kind of happiness do I want, what kind of career, what kind of relationship, a never ending series of pipe dreams. But a want isn’t a do-or-die, of course. Not getting what you want doesn’t kill you, it just makes you mope, and I know that and mope about that too. But I find myself in the peculiar situation of wanting to need, of wanting to find a calling or a necessity that drives me away from indolence and second guessing and sinking into the tar pit of comfort.
But, to put it simply, I don’t want to learn how to die. I don’t want to take that leap off the edge of what I’m so accustomed to, this fortunate life of mine. And that’s because death is the ultimate risk. Whether it’s the death of dreams or the real thing, it’s a paralysing abyss to someone accustomed to risking no more than happiness. Risking happiness may seem like a lot, but in the end I have to face the fact that I’m just cutting my losses. If I fail at what I want, I’ll mope and subsist and find something else that I want. If I fail to get what I need, I risk falling into the abyss – but if I don’t fall…
When this lockdown ends, I’ll be thrust into college and the real world and I’ll have to make a choice: am I willing to learn how to die? Maybe I’ll come back here and let you know what I chose some months or years in the future – until then, it’s time to mope until I get hungry, and maybe learn how to live a little on the way.
The Galley with No Name 