Written by Bo Winegard
All humans are mortal. I am a human. Therefore, I am mortal.
Last week, my father died, as all humans must. And the incontrovertible logic of that hackneyed “All humans are mortal” syllogism became less like a proof in a textbook and more like a punch to the guts. A man who once seemed invulnerable was dead. Not only grief, but also thoughts of my own mortality became impossible to suppress. All the fuss, excitement, agitation, exultation, sadness, triumph, tragedy—all of it would amount to the same thing: Annihilation. We are all on death row awaiting an undisclosed but inescapable execution.
Reflecting on this depressing and macabre state of affairs, I again contemplated that most perennial and perplexing of philosophical questions: What does it all mean?