The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F_ck

All I hear is the wind.
Is this it?
My body shudders, the fear becoming euphoric and
blinding. I focus my mind and clear my thoughts in a kind of
meditation. Nothing makes you present and mindful like
being mere inches away from your own death. I straighten
up and look out again, and find myself smiling. I remind
myself that it’s all right to die.
This willing and even exuberant interfacing with one’s own
mortality has ancient roots. The Stoics of ancient Greece
and Rome implored people to keep death in mind at all
times, in order to appreciate life more and remain humble in
the face of its adversities. In various forms of Buddhism, the
practice of meditation is often taught as a means of
preparing oneself for death while still remaining alive.
Dissolving one’s ego into an expansive nothingness—
achieving the enlightened state of nirvana—is seen as a trial
run of letting oneself cross to the other side. Even Mark
Twain, that hairy goofball who came in and left on Halley’s
Comet, said, “The fear of death follows from the fear of life.
A man who lives fully is prepared to die at any time.”
Back on the cliff, I bend down, slightly leaning back. I put
my hands on the ground behind me and gently lower myself
onto my butt. I then gradually slide one leg over the edge of
the cliff. There’s a small rock jutting out of the cliff side. I
rest my foot on it. Then I slide my other foot off the edge
and put it on the same small rock. I sit there a moment,
leaning back on my palms, wind ruffling my hair. The
anxiety is bearable now, as long as I stay focused on the
horizon.
Then I sit up straight and look down the cliff again. Fear
shoots back up through my spine, electrifying my limbs and
laser-focusing my mind on the exact coordinates of every
inch of my body. The fear is stifling at times. But each time