Next stop: Life and Death.
The tabooest
topic. We’re afraid of Death, even though it’s Death that gives Life its
meaning. Without a deadline, no project (including life) would ever get
finished. Let’s pull the Grim Reaper’s hood off and see who’s hiding under
there. Spoiler: not a skeleton—an exhausted bureaucrat.
The
Legend of Life and Death (The Bureaucracy of Eternity)
Doctors
say: “Life is a sexually transmitted disease with a 100% fatality rate.” True.
We’re all patients in a hospice called “Earth.” Yet we act like we’re going to
live forever. We take out thirty-year mortgages, buy anti-wrinkle cream, and
grind out abs—though the worms couldn’t care less whether we’ve got a six-pack
or not.
Death isn’t
a villain. Death is a cleaner. Picture a party that goes on forever. The guests
are drunk, the dishes are smashed, the music is blaring, everyone’s puking, and
nobody leaves. Death is a kind woman with a mop who turns the music off, cracks
the windows, and says, “Alright, kids, time to go home. The banquet’s over.”
Chapter
I. The Grim Reaper (Office Plankton)
We draw
Death with a scythe. Why would he need a scythe in the 21st century—mow the
lawn? In reality, Death (let’s call him Azrael) is a tired clerk in a gray
suit. His weapon isn’t a scythe; it’s a stamp. He sits in the endless office of
the “Heavenly Chancery” and slaps forms with: “Expiration Date Reached.” He
hates his job.
— Another
epidemic? — Azrael groans. — Overtime again! A million requests a day again! I’m
running out of ink!
Death
doesn’t kill. He just files the discharge. Sometimes he’s late. And then we see
someone in a hospital, hooked up to tubes, who should already be gone—but
Azrael got stuck in traffic or mixed up the folders.
Chapter
II. Strike (The Horror of Immortality)
People
dream of immortality. Fools. In one Portuguese parable (and in Saramago), Death
took offense at humanity and went on vacation. Nobody died. At first everyone
celebrated. Fireworks, champagne! A month later, Hell arrived. Hospitals
overflowed. Old people kept aging—drying out, writhing in pain—but they
couldn’t die. The body turned to dust, the mind burned out, but the heart kept
beating.
Earth
became a giant retirement home full of zombies. The young screamed: there would
never be any inheritances! Apartments were occupied by
great-great-great-grandfathers!
After half
a year, humanity flooded the streets with posters: “Death, come back! We love
you!” Death is mercy. It’s the right to rest.
Chapter
III. Sisyphus (Happiness in Routine)
The myth of
Sisyphus is a metaphor for our lives. A man rolls a stone up a mountain. The
stone falls. The man rolls it again. We think it’s torture. It isn’t. It’s a
career. The stone is our reports, our sales, our renovations. We push them all
our lives, hoping that one day we’ll finally get it to the top and sit down to
rest. But there is no top. There’s only the rolling itself. And you know what?
Sisyphus is happy. Because he has something to do.
The
scariest moment for Sisyphus is if the stone disappears. Then he’ll be left
face-to-face with emptiness. We’re not afraid of the stone’s weight. We’re
afraid they’ll take our stone away—and we’ll have to think about the meaning of
life. And there is no meaning. There’s only the stone.
Chapter IV. Medicine (Hackers)
Doctors are
hackers trying to crack the code God wrote. They extend the demo version of
life. Back in the day, the human warranty period was thirty years. Now it’s
eighty. But after fifty, build quality drops off a cliff. The hinges squeak,
the processor (the brain) lags, the textures (the skin) start to sag.
Medicine
has learned how to keep the “hardware” running, but it still can’t update the
“software.” A rich old man who’s had his seventh heart transplant (like
Rockefeller) is like an old Zhiguli with a Ferrari engine shoved into it. It
can drive—but the chassis is coming apart as it goes.
Finale. Game Over
Life is
like a game in a casino. At the entrance, we’re handed chips (time, health,
talent). We play, we bluff, we win, we lose. But at the exit, there’s only one
rule: you can’t cash the chips out. Everything you’ve won—palaces, power,
money—stays on the dealer’s table.
You leave
the same way you came in: naked. The only thing you can take with you is the
memory of how brilliantly you played. Or how cowardly you sat in the corner,
afraid to place a bet.
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