Decay Theory, proposed by Edward Thorndike, suggests that memory and the passage of time are inherently linked, that over the course of a lifetime, a memory inevitably decays. Yet I still remember moments with my uncle before he passed that I am committed to preserving. I remember when he teased me about my celebrity crushes, pretended to know Gen Z slang, or wished me a happy birthday. Why is it that, according to the laws of time, these memories will eventually slip away from me? Why do the natural forces that govern the universe also seem to govern the fading of the moments I hold dear?
Memories, like humans, are prone to change. They can be reconstructed and reshaped. What endures is not the memory in its original form but the meaning it carries. The memories of my uncle may not remain as they once were, but they are absorbed into the very fabric of who I am, much like how death absorbs the body into the Earth. In this way, memory does not simply decay. It transforms.
Decay and decomposition are not final endings; they are transitional forces that reconfigure and make way for new life. Take stars, for instance. When a star dies in a supernova, it collapses under its own gravity, releasing an enormous amount of energy. The star expands into a red giant and then contracts under the immense pressure of its core. Eventually, the core compresses, rising to over 100 billion degrees, until it explodes, scattering the remains of its celestial body into space. The star dies, but in its death, it creates the conditions for new stars to form. Darkness gives birth to light.
This space between decay and creation is where life finds its rhythm. Philosopher Alfred North Whitehead explains that processes should not be viewed as isolated events but in relation to one another. We are not merely particles or matter existing independently; as Whitehead argues, "no entity can be conceived in complete abstraction from the system of the universe." Thus, death plays a liminal role between the definite past and an infinitely varied future. Fundamental to note is that dying is not inherently negative. Death is simply a transformative phase, a bridge between what was and what could be. As Nietzsche postulates under the notion of eternal recurrence, everything, including decay, is part of a destructive and creative cycle of transformation.
This cycle is omnipresent. Think of forests. Decaying trees, rotten apples, and fallen leaves all contribute to the growth of new plants. Our bodies, our deaths, also nourish the soil. We are buried or scattered, becoming a part of something new.
We often think of ourselves as separate from the universe, as if we are mere inhabitants of Earth, set apart from the vastness of space. But the reality is we are deeply woven into it. The carbon in our bodies is not just Earth-bound; it is universal (celestial carbon). We carry the history of the cosmos within us. The elements that make us who we are were once part of the vibrant heart of a star, which, after burning out, scattered its life force across the expanse of space. Over time, these remnants formed planets, plants, and animals, until, billions of years later, they became part of us. This is why Carl Sagan called us "star stuff." We are the children of the universe, and we always return to it. When we die, the carbon in our bodies returns to the Earth, feeding the soil and nourishing new life. Our existence is a brief moment in the grand cycle, but the elements that form us will continue their journey, reshaping and reforming into new stars, planets, and life.
Our interconnectedness with everything means there is a continuity, a seamless flow that transcends individual existence.
We are always living, whether as people or as fleeting parts of the universe around us. This understanding also appears in theology, particularly in Daoism, where human life is seen as a small but integral part of nature's greater process. The Daoist philosophy instructs that we must flow with nature, aligning ourselves with the natural order rather than resisting it. In Daoist thought, the true "dao" (or "way") is the path of harmony, the recognition that our individual lives are only a momentary expression of the greater flow of life. Just as a river flows toward the sea, we, too, must move with the current, trusting in the continuity that connects us to everything around us.
We are not linear. Our lives are dynamic, a succession, a rotation where our endings are always linked to our beginnings. The value of our lives doesn't stop when we die; it transcends that. We are part of the cosmos. We never cease. We are an expression of life, always and forever. Our decay, our rot, our death—they serve the purpose of the universe. We are both life and death.
Bibliography:
More ND. The Philosophy of Decadence. In: Desmarais J, Weir D, eds. Decadence and Literature. Cambridge Critical Concepts. Cambridge University Press; 2019:184-199.
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