I am star in orbit around a black hole, circling ever closer to the event horizon, radiating a few photons that my physical and cognitive abilities allow for.
Summary: A meditation on the diverse physical and cognitive trajectories that could shape my journey toward death.
As the days peel away one after the other from the calendar hanging on the wall, like leaves falling from a branch in late autumn at the slightest hint of breeze, sometimes I wonder how the trajectory of my remaining life will unfold. There is a quiet persistence to time, a steady slipstream from my beating heart that carries me closer to my end with each passing year. I do not dread this inevitability, nor do I have a desire to embrace it with open arms; I regard it, instead, with the curiosity of a traveler who glimpsed a map for a moment and wonders what awaits.
In moments of solitude, I try to visualize the many paths that the arc of my life might take. I find myself conducting thought experiments, enumerating probabilities, sketching diagrams, speculating which forks the road ahead might offer. I wish, at times, for the impossible luxury of stepping outside of myself and watching my life playout in fast-forward. I wish. I could hover above my own shoulder, an objective observer witnessing the approach of dusk. But alas, life does not grant such omniscience. I remain grounded within myself, left only with the instrument of thought experiments.
In this contemplation, I realize that life, in its essence, unfolds along two interwoven axes: the physical and the cognitive.
The physical aspect encompasses the body — its strength, its energy, its capacity for movement, its action, and its capability for sensation. Physical body is the vessel that carries us through the world, responding to gravity and age, to injuries and recovery, to the long, slow adjustments to inevitable the decay of biology over time.
The cognitive, on the other hand, is the mind — our capacity to think, reflect, remember, imagine, and add a dash of subjectivity to sensory perception. It is where consciousness and self-awareness reside, where our internal voice whispers, where identity takes root, and where the existential crisis of search for meaning is triggered. These two aspects — body and mind — coexist in a kind of dance, each affecting the other. As I look forward into the unknown of the future, I see four broad configurations that might shape the remainder of my life.
First, there is the best-case scenario: that both my physical and cognitive faculties remain largely intact. In this path, I continue to move through the world with relative ease, my mind sharp, my body cooperative. Such a life would allow for engagement, contribution, introspection, a chance to live, perhaps meaningfully, until the very end.
Second, my physical abilities might falter, while my cognitive clarity remains. Perhaps I will grow slower, weaker, needing assistance for simple tasks. But within this aging body, my thoughts may still move freely, my memories may still surface, and I may still ponder the mysteries of life and death with lucidity. In such a case, I imagine I will turn increasingly inward, toward reflection, even as I relinquish the freedoms of motion and labor.
Third, my cognitive powers might fail while my body remains relatively strong. This possibility brings a sense of sorrow. There are many diseases that can bring about this fate — Alzheimer’s, Parkinson’s with dementia, frontotemporal degeneration. In these cases, the very scaffolding of “my” identity crumbles. The body may walk and gesture, but the light behind the eyes will convey nothing. And while I may still “be” in some physical sense, I will no longer be truly present — no longer capable of contemplating mortality, let alone preparing for it.
Fourth, both faculties may decline. The body weakens, and the mind drifts. Functionally, this option is not that different from the third case. Life becomes a quiet fading entirely assisted by others. I may still be among the living, but in truth, I will have already begun my departure.
The final two cases — where cognitive function has slipped beyond reach , to me, are not worth further exploration. Without the faculty to engage in what is happening around me and to me, I will no longer be able to bear witness to my own becoming or undoing. In a strange way, I will be both present and absent. I will be biology without consciousness.
And so, I focus and explore the possibilities in which my cognition is intact. In these cases, I have the capability to contemplate on questions like — what does it mean to approach death with awareness? How might I prepare myself, not just logistically or medically, but spiritually and emotionally? How do I handover myself back to the universe with grace.
To help me envision this, I return often to the metaphor of the cosmos that lights up the night sky. I imagine myself as a star caught in orbit around a black hole — its immense pull constant, invisible, inescapable. There are two ways stars’ orbit could evolve.
In one version, my orbit slowly decays. Over time, imperceptibly, I spiral closer to the event horizon. Gravity tugs persistently; the balance between outward momentum and inward pull grows ever more fragile. Eventually, I will cross that boundary — quietly, inevitably. There is no violence of abruptness in this version, only a graceful descent toward the unknown.
The other version is abrupt. A sudden shift in the gravitational balance. A rupture in the equilibrium pulls the star into the abyss without warning. One moment, everything appears stable; the next, the plunge towards the event horizon happens. It reminds me of a spacecraft adrift, serene in its weightlessness, until artificial gravity re-engages and everything is pulled with force to the floor. Life proceeding, and then… poof. An aneurysm, a heart attack, an unexpected accident. The switch is flipped, and I am gone.
Given the two, I find myself drawn to the first; it allows for mental space for preparation. If I live as though I am spiraling gently inward, then I may begin to align my life accordingly. Along the way, if the abrupt end comes instead that would be fine; I will not be aware of its sudden occurrence, and at least. I will have tried to live with intention in the time granted.
And so, as I imagine this slow inward spiral, I watch for the signs of physical decline — stiffness in the joints, slower recoveries, changing pace of life, a calendar with regular sprinkles of a doctor appointments — and accept them as signals of the path I am on. I continue to think, reflect, and create.
Along that path, there may come a day when I look at my life not with the urgency to do more, but with the quiet peace of in no hurry to get there. With each passing season, I hope to loosen my grip — not out of resignation, but from a deepening sense of gratitude in the completeness of the life I lived.
Along that path, there may come a day when my actions are not wrapped in blanket of expectations, of getting something back in return. They just are.
When the time comes — when I finally cross that invisible threshold and fall into the unknown — I hope it will feel like a journey home. A return to mystery we will never solve, to stillness we wished to have, and transition through the event horizon to whatever lies on the other side of knowing.
Until then, I remain a star in orbit, circling ever closer, radiating a few photons that my physical and cognitive abilities allow for.
Ciao, and thanks for reading.
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