The Sword Of Damocles

One of my recent meditation sessions was disrupted by thoughts of my own mortality, my soul, and the Divine. This wasn’t completely off topic, but I got overwhelmed by the emotional content my thoughts inspired. Some of it was embarrassing “woe is me, I’m gonna die” garbage that I don’t usually indulge, some of it was concerns about what would happen to my loved ones if I checked out early, so to speak. I even spent some time lamenting the future loss of my “personality”, which is the part of myself that will in some sense not continue beyond this physical incarnation. Pretty pathetic and cowardly, I know, but I’ve spent a long time learning to like myself; I’m gonna miss me.

 

As I’ve written before a time or three, I’ve spent a fair amount of time contemplating my mortality and the mortality of my loved ones over the past two years. None of us are getting any younger, and conditions for most people are not getting a lot brighter, either. There are a lot of unknowns that make me worry about my family (most of them are enthusiastic test subjects for big pharma’s latest boondoggle, as I’ve probably already mentioned a hundred times).  I’m not fully convinced that those of us who have opted out are entirely safe either, given that I’m still pretty sure the Virus that Shall Not be Named is an escaped bioweapon and that’s why the security state has been so bananas about narrative control and draconian with their mandates.

 

The result of this tangled meditation, after I dried up my tears and remembered that I’m a grown adult and not a freaking baby, was the realization that none of this changed anything. We are all of us going to die anyway. Whether it’s the vaxx, or recurring Covid infections screwing up our bodies in whatever way the jolly ‘ol spike protein seems wont to do, or one of a million possible other things, we all still gonna take a dirt nap. This just makes it more overt and immediate.

 

The image that popped into my head was the sword of Damocles, which I vaguely remembered from mythology class. I looked it up to refresh my memory after my session was over (I did an extra day on the theme I was supposed to working on; I am a lousy meditator but I do my time). The basic story is a powerful and tyrannical king named Dionysus II rested uneasily because he always had to be vigilant against his enemies; he couldn’t really enjoy the fruits of his exalted position because at any moment his opponents might strike out at him.

A wanderer named Damocles showed up at his court and really talked up how great Dionysus’s life and palace were, and how he had it made. Dionysus, who was pretty paranoid and stressed out, asked Damocles how he’d like to give it a try. Damocles was down for that.

Dionysus had him seated on a golden cushion and had servants prepare a lavish banquet. Damocles was enjoying himself until he glanced up and saw a razor sharp sword hanging by a thread above him, poised to fall and skewer him at any moment. He decided a king’s life wasn’t for him.

This fun little tale was about the dangers inherent in political power (especially for tyrants), but I’m not the first to note that we all have a metaphorical sword of Damocles hanging over us. Even though Damocles excused himself from the banquet, he still ended up dying somehow or other. So did Dionysus the II, and Cicero, who popularized the tale (Cicero also got to experience some of the negative consequences of political power at the hands of Mark Antony).

The sword is always there for everyone. May as well try to enjoy the banquet.