Metastasis

It is the probably the worst state of sickness a human being has to bear, as the most hopeless situation those close by have to face. When life becomes at the mercy of the barbarian cancer cells, when all senses of control evaporate and sensibility numbed, everything else loses its meaning.

Or, perhaps, on the contrary, life is so taken for granted that its meaning could only be felt in the awakening consciousness of its passing away soon.

Or, perhaps, there comes the moment when only the Buddha's mind can remain calm, understanding that everything passes, that there is indeed nothing ever graceful about the human body in the process of aging and decomposing in one way or another, therefore, nothing to be lingered upon.

Sensing death beckoning around the corner, perhaps, there is nothing to be done but walking on, with the head either up to remain aloof, or down to remain indifferent, totalling ignoring it. Either dawning on or, perhaps, miraculously detouring, the moment of truth is not worth any extravagant tribute of attention, any more than for the fact that the earth goes round the sun.

It is surely easier said than done. As they all say, live the moment.

So live the moment, either indulging in all senses or meditating in all void. Life is worth all indulgence; life is worth nothing.

Funny enough, I just came across this enlightening line in Charles Dicken's "A Tale of Two Cities": Death is Nature's remedy of all things...