Momento Mori
There's a particular weight to Sunday evenings. You can feel the week stretching out ahead—work, obligations, the same routines. And somewhere in the back of your mind, a quiet thought: I'll get to the important stuff later.
Later. That word we all live by. Later I'll have that conversation. Later I'll make that change. Later I'll become the man I'm supposed to be. The ancients had a different word: memento mori. Remember death. Monks whispered it to each other in passing. Stoics kept skulls on their desks. Not because they were morbid, but because they understood something we've completely forgotten: that remembering you're going to die is what teaches you how to live.
We don't think about death much anymore. It's something that happens to other people—to the old, the sick, the unlucky. Not to us. Not yet. We've got time. Except you don't know if you do. None of us do. Our entire culture is built on this assumption. Scroll for three hours. Put off the apology. Chase another weekend of numbing out. There's always tomorrow to get serious, to start living with intention, to stop wasting the gift you've been given.
Here's what happens when you let that truth sink in past the surface: everything sharpens. The stupid argument you've been nursing? Suddenly feels small. The fear that's been keeping you paralyzed? Loses its power. The person you've been taking for granted? You see them clearly, maybe for the first time.
Memento mori doesn't make you afraid. It makes you honest.
When you know your days are numbered, you stop wasting them on things that don't matter. The endless scroll. The petty resentment. The comfort that's slowly turning you soft. You start asking different questions: What am I actually doing with this life? Who am I becoming? What would I regret leaving undone?
The saints meditated on death not to become depressed, but to become free—free from the illusion that they had infinite time to get it right. Free from the tyranny of "later."
You don't have infinite time. You have today. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe fifty years. But definitely not forever. And that's not meant to paralyze you. It's meant to wake you up. So ask yourself: if you knew this was your last year, what would you change? Who would you call? What would you stop tolerating? What would you finally start?
The clock is ticking for all of us. Not as some cruel cosmic joke, but as a gift—a reminder that this matters. That you matter. That the way you spend your days is the way you spend your life, and none of it is guaranteed. So stop living like you have infinite chances to get it right. Stop putting off what matters. Stop pretending that "later" is promised to you. You might not have a year. You might have decades. But you definitely don't have forever. Remember you will die. Then go live like you mean it.
“Christ’s martyrs feared neither death nor pain. He triumphed in them who lived in them; and they, who lived not for themselves but for Him, found in death itself the way to life.” – St. Augustine of Hippo
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This article was written by Pietro Forti, a member of Ave Christvs Rex.
Do not reproduce without permission. Sharing with attribution is encouraged.
