I’m a sucker for moments where I fall hard and heavy into skepticism of reality itself; what a wide scope that is the most subjectively objective experience bound by all the dimensions we know of, or for the sake of subjectivity, we claim logical.

A few days ago, I had my close friend report me a tragic incident that had occurred at the same point of space that has been occupied by himself every single day, repeatedly, but not at the same point in time. A human being was shot dead; corpse left in the middle of the street. In a single second, a subject became an object; from an accumulation of experience, thoughts, memories and consciousness to a body that cannot even feel the ground it lies upon, nor the rain it sinks within. Senses shut off, consciousness gone dim; decaying matter was what’s left of him.

Replaying on repeat was the scenario in my mind, the image of a face that once held expressions of happiness and sadness, now pale and receiving nothing but drizzle, unknown or unfelt of. A still frame to symbolize the variable of time, which had defined a subject as it ran, come to a standstill, and then abandon. Synchronously, my thoughts struck by existential questions, that forever will be, open-ended.

Just like that, from subject to object.

No heaven, no hell, not afterlife, not even reality itself; an expired body, no longer functional, finally demonstrates the mind’s fate, and thereupon ‘I do not think, therefore I am not.’

Just like that.


As the sun rises the next day, and as it does every day, that man is nothing but a memory, which is also subjected to forgetfulness and nothingness, for he who remembers him, will die, too. Time knows only he who knows time, and with the transformation of the subject to the object, time is unknown. Ironic how the objective truth hides behind the mask of pessimistic subjectivity, which is merely an observable reality that is transcended, deeply, in the ‘heart’ of the observer. Notice how death is an avoided topic on a dining table, and how it is perceived as an event that is unlikely to occur ‘any time soon’. Always self-programmed to believe, trustfully, “not today.”

How sad it is to be reminded of one’s own fate, and how disastrous that the subject (mind) is after all finite in regards to the object (body).

Now of course, one tool of immortality is earning oneself a proper death certificate with a proper “cause of death” as a sophisticated data point. Most probably, we will fail to project ourselves onto the Heavens, so that is ruled out. Of course, our so-called immortality projects are bound to fail just as much as we are bound to die. The transference objects we have assigned might as well be observers to our tragic transformation; nothing rules out the possibility of dying before my lover or my child. Thus unfortunately, a firm and respectable “cause of death” on a massive database is our last and only resort, “realistically”.

See how subjective?

Subjective in that there is a difference in empathy towards an elderly who dies peacefully and naturally and towards the man referred to previously. That is the subject’s threat; that sets the gravity of the fearful reminder of the ultimate. The subject would rather imagine himself go peacefully amongst his fulfilled goals, than rot on one of those man-made roads. As if ‘cause of death’ on that futile certificate entails “tragic” or “peaceful”.

Subjective in that there would be a “real” measurable difference if that man had been a priest or the president of the United States of America. As if none of these men discharges feces once or twice every 24 hours; as if these men are immortals.

Everything is measurable in our world; it is our world, isn’t it?

However, a few things are just not measurable, and if you’re alert enough, almost nothing is definitely measurable, which leads us to a messy point.

At a point like this, we plunge in skepticism of reality; and there is nothing more fearful, truthful and beautiful than a point so dense at which the accumulation that is you converges to a halt. You would expect an answer, but find: nothing.

At that point, it is only allowable to say, “I exist, now.”

How mournful that in my mind I escape a bullet, fly over Earth, and travel at the speed of light; yet in the realm of existence, a bullet takes me away, gravity pulls me down, and science betrays.