I like to think of the average human lifespan as a dramatic composition in four acts of approximately twenty years each. The first act consists of the formative years of learning to function productively and punctiliously in society. Using a poker term, it is [[Table stakes|table stakes]] in the sense of acquiring the unavoidable minimum body of knowledge required to even begin living a competent adult life. As an aside, I find it incredibly wasteful that every human is born a blank slate — especially as the horizon of our collective knowledge keeps expanding faster than our individual ability to catch up, as if propelled by some epistemic version of the cosmological constant. If only there were a way to prime an infant's brain with a downloadable starter kit of languages, humanities, and science... but this is not what this rant is about. The second act, between the ages of 20 and 40, is one of empirical experimentation aimed at finding one's place in society as much as one's true self. It is the time in which lasting personal relationships are formed (both platonic and romantic), behavioral and sexual preferences are explored (more or less adventurously), and professional career paths are determined (often serendipitously). Continuing with the poker analogy, it is a time of learning when to hold and when to fold, in all aspects of life. The third act, from 40 to 60, is typically one of going all in, backed by the mature confidence of knowing one’s true north and wants much better. For parents, it is also typically when they guide their offspring through the end of *their* own first act in chaotic bifurcations of love and angst. Careers and personal wealth also tend to reach their peak, although happiness paradoxically tends to hit a minimum, according to some studies. The final act is, in an ideal scenario, one where wisdom and acceptance lead a person to ride gracefully into the sunset — professionally first, by passing the baton to grateful mentees, and then personally, as the inevitability of death manifests itself through every additional bodily vexation that old age brings. Anything in excess of 80 years is, statistically speaking, a somewhat anomalous fifth act, so I won't expound it here. As I near the zenith of my own third act, I get more physical reminders — mostly subtle, but increasingly overt — of some of the age-related challenges that lie ahead. While I must stay focused on grinding the main personal and professional quests, I also increasingly need to plan for the fourth and presumably final act. And this leads me to think about all the paths *not* traveled. The older I get, the more options become causally disconnected from my own [[Light cone|light cone]]. Alternative careers I could have pursued, relationships I could have devoted myself to, skills I could have learned, hobbies I could have enjoyed, books I could have read, investments I could have made — the bucket list of things I *won’t* do ruthlessly cannibalizes the list of things I *could* still do. What if I had pursued philosophy, as my graduate professor encouraged me to do? What if I had listened to my geeky side and pursued computer science before it was cool? Could I have achieved success as a scientist? Or a writer, perhaps? What if I had committed to other relationships, cities, adventures? Could I have taken more risks? More and more of these questions join the "forever undecidable" list with every additional day that goes by. There is a type of *[[Saudade|saudade]]* that comes with these questions. There also lies some bittersweet contradiction about human existence: so much potential at the onset, and yet so few paths that can be meaningfully explored in just a couple of useful acts. I long for a save point that I could reload *ad infinitum* — to try out every side quest, conquer every heart, max out every skill tree, and witness every possible ending. Perhaps it is this bittersweetness that has led even deep and rational thinkers to hang on to the fantasy of an endless afterlife, in which the light cone of possibilities is no longer a constraining factor. I remember reading Ray Kurzweil and finding his transhumanist fever dream of uploading his mind to a machine an obvious pathological manifestation of his fear of mortality. Or how Kurt Gödel, a giant who held logic above all else, still reasoned his way into believing in an afterlife (which he wonderfully named the *[[Wiedersehen]]*, or "seeing again" in German): >If the world is rationally organized and has meaning, then it must be the case [that there is an afterlife]. For what sort of a meaning would it have to bring about a being (the human being) with such a wide field of possibilities for personal development and relationships to others, only then to let him achieve not even 1/1,000th of it? (Gödel, 1961, as cited in [[Englert, 2024]]). I don't believe in an afterlife. I also don't share Kurzweil’s pathological fear of death, mostly on account of having been dead for one eternity already and having no unpleasant memory of it (if anything, it’s the process of dying that I find unappealing, depending on the circumstances). But I do share Gödel’s disbelief — although not his conclusions — about the paradoxical contrast between the vastness of human potential and its usually mundane and narrow realization. If the afterlife does not exist to continue one’s self-actualization, then there is something slightly nihilistic about the "one shot at life" that leads to so many wasted opportunities. Of course, that single canvas, with little room for drawing errors, is *also* what makes life as beautiful and precious as a unique art piece. All we can do with it is follow the perennial adage — *carpe diem*.