Death as solely a concept is not a luxury that humans can afford.
If life is a simple trick of biology, a specific sequence of atoms and molecules, does that mean that life has no meaning? That we, in fact, have physical restraints, and are forced to come to terms with the certainty that we are not bigger than ourselves; do not have much time in the world; are an infinitesimally small speck in the grandest timeline of existence?
Or, does it mean that the living body—despite all barriers and boundaries—prevailed against the universe to give itself meaning?
I postulate this: there is not a single life without meaning; and conversely, there is no meaning without the essence of being. But be-ing is not merely the biological definition of a working mind.
There are black holes that dance around each other for eons, finally collapse into each other’s arms. They create waves in the space-time continuum, washing lengths of pure energy over the universe. Hauntingly beautiful, and yes, woefully abstruse. There is beauty still—in the absence of life anywhere in the cosmos, in the organizations of electrons and quarks.
Persistence is written into the very fabric of the universe. The meaning of life resides in these nooks and crannies, in the evening thoughts of the poet, the messy proofs of the mathematician, the chlorophyll creating the colour of grass, the stars blazing in the sky. What I mean to say is: persistence is being. Persistence is meaningful. Persistence is beautiful.
Something holds value simply because it exists.
Momo's Musings 