The Eternal Return
Reflections on Mortality, Creativity, and Meaning
I wrote this the night before my prostate cancer surgery.
Now that I’m in remission from that and managing my other cancer well (multiple myeloma), I’m finally at a place where I can share the feeling I was experiencing when I was facing a grim prognosis:
Why do I feel so sad when I am nothing.
I know this: the experience of trying to kill my ego tells me that I am.
So why mourn over something that’s not real?
There’s no more illusion that I am an eternal “I.” To be sad that one day there will come an end to all that I think I am is like being sad at the cloud that breaks apart and disappears.
Sadness is just a feeling that will pass, just like me.
Again, this went through my mind the night before the surgery, which occurred months ago, and does not reflect my current state of mind.
In fact, the experience has given me such clarity that I can see there has been an emptiness filled with the imaginary friends I’ve made over the years online.
The real relationships I have are with those who were with me in the ICU, and those who reached out to me through phone calls and texts to let me know they would be there for me—at the ready to come down to my corner of the world to help me heal.
Not the people who messaged me through social media, taking the opportunity to ask why I haven’t followed their businesses or platforms devoted to their work.
It is with this blinding sight, as expressed by Dylan Thomas in his poem Do not go gentle into that good night, that my focus is now on eternity. When my time does come, what do I leave behind?
If you’re someone who creates just to create, with no desire to “monetize” your “content,” you know what I mean by having your eye on eternity. To create something so beautiful and profound that it will live on long after you’re gone—you understand what I’m feeling.
And this is your sign that the instinct—to not be influenced by what’s trending or by what would be suppressed by an algorithm designed to give you a first hit of attention for free, only to cut you off and leave you insecure about your work, tempting you to pay for more visibility—is proof that you are on the right path.
We may all disappear like the clouds, but you and I will live on in the Forms of our Ideals, which, for the artist, is good enough.
I do know one thing: in thinking about my life and the choices I made that resulted in my cancer—from enlisting in the military and serving in the Persian Gulf War, where I was exposed to depleted uranium and oil smoke, to the aftermath of 9/11, where so many toxins entered my system—if given the chance, I would do it again.
Because doing it again, I would also get to experience the many loves, the many joys, and the many wild experiences that shaped who I am and continue to fuel my desire to create.
I would make my Eternal Return.
I want to take this opportunity to thank those of you who’ve subscribed to my Substack. It’s an honor and a privilege to have your focus. I do not take for granted your precious time.
I will be back to sharing the drafts of works in progress when the shock of it all finally wears off and I’m in a better place mentally, so that what I share here is not tinged so much with this existential dread that continues to pervade my mood.
My focus is joy and figuring out what to make of this dread that makes everything in my life feel so bright and alive, because I am also so happy that I am here—and will continue to be here for what my doctors have assured me will be many more years to come.
Namaste.
