Death, in a sense, is a moment of closing accounts, of relinquishing the molecular wealth we amassed but never owned.
Arun Kumar + AI: Various Options for Cognitive and Physical Well Being
Summary: A lyrical meditation on death as the final return of borrowed atoms to the cosmos. Drawing from personal experience of a death, it reflects on the dignity of a lucid end, the mystery of the event horizon, and the grace of accepting life as a temporary gift from the universe.
There comes a moment — silent, mysterious, invisible, beyond the reach of language — at the very end of our existence. If our cognitive abilities continue to hold, then it becomes a veritable Zeno’s paradox of approaching but never getting there when we return to the universe what we borrowed.
That moment is Death.
That moment is the crossing of the Event Horizon.
From the birth cry onward, we borrow atoms to make us grow, sustain, and procreate. The creation of our life and our existence is an amazing journey from the Big Bang to stellar evolution — formation of stars and galaxies — to the emergence of the principle of natural selection (in an energy constrained environment) to our birth. Our existence is a long succession of domino effects of inevitabilities.
To the last exhale when we dissolve back into the cosmic quiet, we are merely tenants of this universe, a biology on loan.
At birth, we inherited atoms sculpted by cosmic alchemy. Calcium from long-dead stars settles into our bones. Iron that once swirled inside a supernova pulse through our blood. We grow by borrowing — oxygen, nitrogen, carbon — all arranged in the physical form and the consciousness that we are. And when the time arrives, we are called to return it all. Death, in that sense, is a moment of closing accounts, of relinquishing the molecular wealth we amassed but never owned.
As we spiral toward that inevitable end, our capacities — mental and physical — do not always decline in tandem. There is a sort of 2x2 contingency table to describe this final arc. This contingency table is not about statistical probabilities, but more of a poetic license. On one axis, the cognitive self — our awareness, our memories, our perception. On the other, the physical self — the body that moves us, that breathes, digests, aches, and holds consciousness within.
If all goes well, some find themselves in that rare quadrant of the contingency table: a reasonably fit body, a lucid mind. Their decline is gradual, almost elegant, like a leaf circling in an eddy before sinking. Or a star in an orbit of a black hole spiraling slowly towards the event horizon.
Others arrive with the mind fully alert but the body faltering — muscles weaken, organs give way, daily living has to be assisted. It is the condition of the caged bird: a lucid mind living within a faltering vessel. There are also those for whom the mind dims while the body remains sturdy, a vitality without a thought. And finally, for many, both realms fade together.
If we are among the fortunate — if we retain clarity of thought as the body slows — death can be visualized not unlike a star spiraling into a black hole. Aware, even serene, the mind watches as each orbit draws closer to the event horizon. The moment it is crossed, time and self as we know them cease.
What does the mind think in that final moment, if it still thinks at all? Does it sense the proximity of the edge? Can it articulate the final relinquishment, can it communicate the thoughts back, or is it overcome by silence, awed by the dazzling fireworks of activity taking place near the event horizon, and in that awe forgets all about its past existence it is about to leave behind? I do not know. I do not have the luxury of living through such an experiment. And if, by grace, I do find myself at that precipice with my consciousness intact, I will not be around to narrate the experience.
What about sharing of that journey in the death of others? So far, I have witnessed the event horizon up close only once. It was during my father’s passing.
He was, by most measures, in the quadrant of grace. Until very close to the end, he did not require help with his daily physical needs. His body remained cooperative, and his mind — functional, perceptive, engaged. But when getting closer and closer to the event horizon, there was a visible awareness in him that the physical was slowly receding. He could see the inward spiral. I think he understood that the event horizon was not far. But he did not resist its approach; instead, towards the end he seemed to lean on it with quiet acceptance.
On the evening of his last day, something shifted. Though he was no longer able to articulate clearly, he seemed intent on conveying something. He made gestures, reached out. His urgency to communicate was visible, though his capacity for speech was lost. Perhaps he was trying to say some words of wisdom; perhaps he wanted to say the final adieu; or perhaps he wanted to say that it is time to go. Still trying, he asked for something to write upon and scribbled on it that we were not able to decipher.
I can only guess what he wanted to say. And maybe in doing so, I project what I might want to say when approaching the event horizon, had I been in his place.
Later that evening, we took him to a private nursing home. My sister and I remained by his side. The air in the room was still with approaching finality. His breathing slowed, softening with each passing hour. We held his hands as though trying to share his journey or perhaps to let him know that we will be ok, that he lived a full life and we are grateful to him for our own existence. And then, without drumroll, without pain, his breathing stopped. He crossed the event horizon.
In that moment, I imagined that we were assisting him on his last journey. That by our touch, by our presence, we helped him pass more gently across the event horizon. That he felt, in some corner of his fading mind, he was not alone. That he was guided, not lost.
I do not know what his final thoughts were. But I hope that he was at peace. That he felt his journey was complete, that he understood the inevitability, symmetry, and completeness of return. That he sensed the act not as ending, but as giving back what he did not own.
If given a choice, I would want my arc of life approaching death to mirror his. A slow spiral with cognition intact. A body that still functions well enough. A mind that knows the event horizon is getting nearer and accepts it without fear. I would want acceptance within me when it’s time to give back what I borrowed. That, to me, would be the perfect arc of life’s journey into death.
We are brief visitors in the unfolding of the universe. Remnants of stars shaped into beings. The atoms we carry do not belong to us; they were here before, and they will persist after. Life is the brief flicker in which those atoms come together to think, feel, remember. Then, like everything in the universe, they shall go their own ways.
And in that giving, there is a strange kind of grace. Not surrender, not loss — but participation in the workings of something much vaster. An affirmation of our place in the grand tapestry of space, time, energy, and matter.
The event horizon awaits each of us. Some will reach it unaware, others burdened or resisting its approach. A few will spiral toward it with eyes wide open and a mind at peace.
May we all, when our time comes, cross with that kind of dignity. May we know, even in our last breath, that the journey of living was worth taking on the loan.
Ciao, and thanks for reading.
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