before the clock stops
a letter to life, written with the urgency of death
we all carry death with us, but most of us don’t dare speak its name. maybe because it stirs a raw kind of anxiety that crawls under the skin. for some, it’s a tightness in the chest, a breath caught mid-sentence. for others, it is a quiet relief, a distant promise of rest after the exhaustion of living through hardship. everyone carries death in their own way, shaped by memories, culture, beliefs, and the stories they tell themselves.
we try not to think about it. we busy ourselves, distract ourselves, soften the edges of it with rituals and euphemisms. but death hums beneath everything, like the steady ticking of a clock no one wants to hear. it is part of every goodbye, every silence, every ache we try to name. and though most seem to fear it, for me it is not fear.
death is a mirror. a quiet nudge. it whispers that there is no time to wait for the perfect version of myself, no time to postpone joy, no time to shelf dreams until i feel worthy. it reminds me how quickly things can vanish, how suddenly a season can end. like the last seconds slipping away before the clock stops. there is a strange duality to death, both the most certain truth and the ultimate mystery. it asks me to live deliberately, to savour the small things, to open myself to the messy, unpredictable experience of being alive.
sometimes i think of marcus aurelius and how he saw death not as a threat but as a guide. i try to carry that with me, especially on the quiet days when nothing feels urgent. he reminded himself, again and again, that to live is to be present. to make every tick of the clock count. and so i remind myself too. even when i’m tired. even when i feel behind. i think of heidegger and his belief that death gives our lives meaning, that knowing we will one day vanish is what makes each small choice matter. even the tiniest act becomes sacred. nothing is too small to hold weight.
and then there is psychology. not cold or clinical, but human. the way terror management theory explains our search for legacy and love as a way to soothe the ache of knowing it all ends. we want to be remembered. we want to matter to someone. maybe that is why i write, why i love deeply, why i chase wonder. maybe that is why i photograph sunsets and collect words like artifacts. when death is embraced openly, it can transform dread into a quiet motivation. a call to live fully, without hesitation.
perhaps that is the point of it all. to feel deeply, even when it hurts.
oh, how lucky we are to experience heartbreak. how lucky we are to ache so deeply that it proves we’ve loved, proves we’ve risked something real. pain is not a punishment, but a sign that we were here. that we felt. that we dared to open our hearts in a world that keeps asking us to close them. to be alive is to be cracked open again and again. and still choose to stay. still choose to feel it all. even the hurt. especially the hurt. because what a gift it is, to feel so much and still want to keep going.
i want to live like i am trying to impress the universe. to taste every street food stall in every city i set foot in. i want to fill my lungs with the dry dust of desert winds, the sharp salt of ocean breezes, the heavy warmth of tropical rain. i want to wake up in strange places and learn how to belong there. i want to touch art that moves me and meet people who change me without warning.
let me feel the foreign, the unfamiliar, the firsts that break open new parts of my heart. let me fall in love with stories that do not speak my language but still speak directly to my soul. i want to love people whose names may slip from memory but whose presence lingers like a quiet song. i want to climb mountains and read books that remind me how small i truly am.
there is so much to feel. so much to marvel at. i want to get lost in museums for hours, to listen to live music in dimly lit bars in cities i barely know. i want to collect sunsets the way others collect souvenirs. i want to sleep on trains and wake to landscapes that feel new with every breath. i want to learn the constellations from a stranger’s rooftop and breathe wonder as if it were oxygen itself.
i want a life textured with experience so deeply that regret finds no room to take root. not a life of noise or frantic achievement, but one of meaning woven through small, deliberate joys. i want to help someone feel less alone, not through grand gestures but through the quiet kind of presence that steadies another’s breath. i want to be a place of safety, a soft landing, the warmth in a world that often feels cold. i want to hand someone a glass of water they didn’t know they needed, to meet their ache with something simple and kind.
sometimes, with my eyes closed, i imagine the years ahead. not because i know what they will look like, but because hope lives in the visualising. i do not know exactly where we will end up, but i hope the days feel warm. maybe i’ll be married to someone kind, someone who makes even the quiet moments feel full. i picture my two cats still with us, curled in sunny spots by the windows, following us from room to room like shadows with hearts. i imagine a home where light spills across the floors, where plants grow despite my forgetfulness, and music plays softly while we cook dinner together.
i see bookshelves overflowing with favourites, a fridge full of leftovers from meals shared with people we love, and shoes by the door that belong to those we trust. maybe there will be wind chimes on the balcony. herbs growing in the kitchen. and the whole place will smell like memories before they are even made. i do not know what city we will be in or what job i will have, but i hope the life we build will feel like breath, like ease, like something made gently and on purpose. i hope there will be traditions that make no sense to anyone but us. i hope the home will smell of freshly baked cookies, candle wax, and safety.
if children find their way into my life, i want them to look at how i lived and feel permission to dream without boundaries. to take risks. to chase wonder without apology. i want the life i build to speak for itself. to say, without needing to explain, you are allowed to want more. and when i am no longer here, i hope something of me lingers. not in the noise i made, but in the way someone else found courage. in the way they chose gentleness. a quiet legacy, not one of accolades or volume, but of safety offered freely.
i do not know the path to get there yet, and sometimes that uncertainty aches deep in my chest. sometimes the path ahead blurs beneath the fog of my own fears. the weight of survival presses against my ribs like an unspoken prayer. and still, death keeps whispering to me. not as a threat, but as a nudge. start now. try. do something. anything. do it scared. do it tenderly.
time does not pass in seconds but in moments gathered like scattered leaves, some bright, some bruised, all fleeting. each moment is a leaf in the wind. some golden, some brittle, some caught between pages of memory. the clock doesn’t tick. it exhales.
life cannot be reduced to waking, eating, working, sleeping, and repeating endlessly. it cannot be, because one day, we will not wake. one day, the world will go on without us. our voices, our jokes, our coffee orders, and our little habits will all be gone. and all that will remain are the things we gave, the way we made others feel, the love we shared, the things we created, and the small traces left in someone else’s memory.
some days, i fall into stillness and scroll endlessly, crying without knowing why. i forget to reply to messages and lose track of the day. i do not always know what i am doing. but i still try. i still get up and walk a new path through a park i have never seen before. i still book tickets to places that make my chest flutter. i still try new recipes and write lists of things i want to do before i disappear. i still laugh with strangers, pet animals, and plan next month’s dreams.
sometimes living is just letting something small change you. like a film that rewires your brain chemistry. a dessert that tastes like childhood. a city that softens grief. a stranger’s kindness that you did not expect. it is rarely something grand. more often, it is a quiet choice to keep moving. to keep reaching. to keep being here. to keep breathing.
maybe that is what marcus meant, to let presence be a prayer. maybe that is what heidegger saw in death. not an end, but a reason to begin. to paint our lives with meaning while we still can.
death does not frighten me as much as the idea of never truly living. so i will live as if every small moment is sacred. because one day, it will be the last one i get.
and i want it to feel like enough.
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Quite relatable and beautiful too
this was so beautiful wtaf