The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F_ck

by paramedics. I remember staring into the black Texas
night and watching my ego slowly dissolve into it. Josh’s
death taught me much more than I initially realized. Yes, it
helped me to seize the day, to take responsibility for my
choices, and to pursue my dreams with less shame and
inhibition.
But these were side effects of a deeper, more primary
lesson. And the primary lesson was this: there is nothing to
be afraid of. Ever. And reminding myself of my own death
repeatedly over the years—whether it be through
meditation, through reading philosophy, or through doing
crazy shit like standing on a cliff in South Africa—is the only
thing that has helped me hold this realization front and
center in my mind. This acceptance of my death, this
understanding of my own fragility, has made everything
easier—untangling my addictions, identifying and
confronting my own entitlement, accepting responsibility for
my own problems—suffering through my fears and
uncertainties, accepting my failures and embracing
rejections—it has all been made lighter by the thought of
my own death. The more I peer into the darkness, the
brighter life gets, the quieter the world becomes, and the
less unconscious resistance I feel to, well, anything.
I sit there on the Cape for a few minutes, taking in
everything. When I finally decide to get up, I put my hands
behind me and scoot back. Then, slowly, I stand. I check the
ground around me—making sure there’s no errant rock
ready to sabotage me. Having recognized that I am safe, I
begin to walk back to reality—five feet, ten feet—my body
restoring itself with each step. My feet become lighter. I let
life’s magnet draw me in.
As I step back over some rocks, back to the main path, I
look up to see a man staring at me. I stop and make eye
contact with him.