Memento Mori, Memento Vivere

My deaths in 2022 fundamentally changed how I show up in this world.

They changed how I view people. How I interact. How I conduct myself. Hell, they even changed my fucking sleep patterns (if insomnia counts as a pattern).

Death rewired me.

And in case anyone forgot, I didn’t just brush up against it once. I died three times.

Three.

When I came back, something in me locked onto Death itself. Not in fear. In fascination. The symbolism. The Reaper. The threshold. Memento mori. Memento vivere. Remember you must die. Remember you must live.

One of my first post-death acts was a full back tattoo, a Reaper etched into my skin, my death dates carved into his blade. The blade chipped where it nearly broke against my spine.

Because it almost did.

Beneath him are leaves, green, red, purple, fading into black as they stretch across my back. Color dissolving into shadow. Life and death sharing the same canvas.

I didn’t stop there.

Memento mori, memento vivere on my left forearm.

A custom blue-and-gold reaper patch stitched onto my leather vest.

Reaper jewelry. Skull grocery bags.

I’m not casually interested. I’m obsessed.

Even my writing reflects it. I’m building an entire dark fantasy universe centered on reaper-like beings who shepherd souls between realms. I didn’t plan that. It spilled out of me.

Because here’s the truth: Death became my companion.

Not immediately. At first I struggled. After the third death, I was emotionally flayed. Raw. Walking the earth like a nerve without skin. Every tear felt like salt in soil I wasn’t sure would ever grow anything again.

When you cross that threshold and come back, you don’t return untouched. You return urgent. Impact matters more. Legacy matters more. Trivial shit falls away like ash.

And somewhere along the way, I stopped fearing Death. I began honoring it.

Death isn’t the villain. Death is the reminder.

A reminder that time is finite. That comfort is temporary. That excuses are cheap. That someday the conversation ends.

It doesn’t whisper, “Be afraid.” It whispers, “Get busy.”

I’ve tried explaining this to my friends. Sometimes with too much urgency. Sometimes like I’m shaking them by the shoulders.

They don’t always hear me.

They’re still deep in the daily grind, wrestling problems that won’t matter in ten years. They haven’t stood in the doorway and felt the pull of the other side. They haven’t crossed the threshold and come back battleworn.

I have.

I speak a slightly different language now.

They don’t.

But I love them. I fucking love them. And I want them awake. I want them present. I want them living like the clock is honest. Because it is.

So these days, I sit with Death like an old acquaintance. Me and the Reaper, staring each other down.

And we’re both smiling.

Memento mori.
Memento vivere.