It was a typical Thursday evening at Penicillin. Ariana had just returned from yet another trip and decided to stop by this dimly-lit bar tucked away in a quiet corner in Central. After ordering her first drink, she spotted two familiar faces at the door: Helen, a professor who had mentored her briefly back in college, and Wei, an old friend from high school who had been helping out in a "meditation group" recently. She waved them over, and after a few rounds of drinks, their conversation drifted into deeper waters.
"Guys, I need to tell you something," Ariana said, swirling her drink. "You've been asking why I'm always on the move, why I can't seem to stay in one place. Well, the truth is, I'm running from death. I know it sounds ridiculous—what does hopping on planes have to do with dying? But hear me out.
"When I'm up there, looking down at our cities, watching all those tiny cars moving like ants, everything seems eternal. The world just keeps spinning. But then it hits me—I won't be around to see it forever. And not in some abstract way like 'everyone dies someday.' I will die.
"You know that old syllogism? It goes like this: ‘All men are mortal. Socrates is a man. Therefore, Socrates is mortal.’ It's one thing to understand it intellectually, but it's something else entirely to feel it in your bones. I don't believe in an afterlife—when we're done, we're done. Like before we were born, just nothing. No awareness, no dreams, no anything. And what terrifies me most is that I can’t even comprehend this nothingness. My consciousness will vanish. My body will rot. I’ll never feel, think, or exist again. What’s the meaning of life if it’s all erased?"
"Ariana," Helen said gently, "it sounds like you’re grappling with something deeply personal, something that touches all of us in one way or another. Your fear—it’s not ridiculous. It’s human. And while I can’t claim to have all the answers, I do think philosophy might offer a way to look at this differently.
"You brought up Socrates... You might remember from my class how Diotima talked about our desire for immortality in the Symposium. I can tell how you enjoy your lifestyle—traveling, exploring, having the opportunity to see and maybe even own beautiful things from around the world. What Diotima would say is that your travels, your search for beauty, are all driven by a deep desire to hold onto something forever (Symposium, 206a). You want to preserve this vibrant, dynamic life.
"But we all understand there's no unlimited life for us to live—we are mortal creatures by nature. Yet, as Diotima put it, 'mortal natures seek as far as they can to exist forever and to be immortal' (Symposium, 207d). To put it briefly—and I’m sure you’re not here to be lectured all over again—mortality itself can be transcended through the creation of beauty and the pursuit of wisdom. When we create something beautiful, whether it's art, ideas, or positive change in others' lives, we participate in something immortal."
"But beauty fades, wisdom gets forgotten. Even if something survives, it’s not me. How do you make peace with that? Doesn’t it feel hollow to create something you’ll never get to hold?"
"You misunderstand," Helen said. "It's not about the permanence of any single creation, but about the chain of inspiration and influence we set in motion. When we create something beautiful—and I don’t mean just art, but any form of excellence—we inspire others to reach higher. This is what Diotima meant when she spoke of the ladder of love, ascending from the physical to the spiritual (210a–212a). In a way, that chain carries pieces of us forward.
"Sure, reaching for that highest form of beauty Diotima talks about—that perfect, eternal beauty—isn’t easy. But even smaller legacies matter. Anything we leave behind that gets carried forward by future generations becomes our unique contribution. In that sense, we shouldn’t fear death, because we leave behind something representative of ourselves that’s immortal."
Ariana leaned back, staring at her glass. "So you’re saying the key is to stop thinking about myself—about my own end—and focus on creating something bigger, something that can outlive me. But isn’t that just another way to distract myself? And I won’t be there to see whatever outlasted me."
Wei, who had been quietly contemplating, joined in. "Helen, I appreciate how you frame mortality as something that can be transcended through creating beauty or wisdom," he began, his voice thoughtful. "But I wonder if, by focusing so much on what we leave behind, we risk losing sight of the life we’re living right now. In Confucian thought, the emphasis isn’t on legacy but on how we walk the path itself. As Confucius said, 'While you do not know life, how can you know about death?' (The Analects, 11:11). It seems to me that you two are so focused on the endpoint that you’re missing the path itself."
"How can we ignore the endpoint? It defines the path. Every step we take is toward it. Every moment is shadowed by its inevitable end. Isn’t it dishonest to pretend otherwise?"
The bartender quietly polished glasses behind the counter, occasionally glancing at the trio as their conversation grew more animated.
"Ariana, consider this instead," Wei responded, "that understanding how to live well is more crucial than understanding death. In fulfilling our roles—as friends, as members of society, as cultivators of virtue—we find meaning that transcends our individual mortality. So rather than preoccupying ourselves with death, we should first learn what it means to live ethically, responsibly, and compassionately."
"That sounds noble," Ariana replied, her voice softer now. "But isn’t it just another framework to keep us busy so we don’t think too much about the void? And what if I don’t fit into those roles the way Confucius imagined? What if my meaning lies elsewhere? We’re in a very different cultural context, after all."
"I understand why it might seem that way, Ariana. Indeed, any attempt to frame existence can appear as a construct if we view it from a certain distance. Confucius once noted, 'When internal examination discovers nothing wrong, what is there to be anxious about, what is there to fear?' (The Analects, 12:4). Living well isn’t just a cultural formula; it’s about cultivating authentic goodness in ourselves and our relationships. Our fear of nothingness is tied to our sense of self, our desire for permanence. But life isn’t lived in isolation. Every act of kindness, every piece of wisdom we share—these weave a fabric of significance.
"It’s less about imposing a pre-made cultural formula on you and more about recognizing that, even without fixed beliefs, you can aspire to live in a way that leaves no regrets, that uplifts others, and that attends carefully to what is worthy in the present moment."
"I get what you're saying, Wei, and I appreciate it. But let’s be real—Confucius had a pretty clear agenda, even if you’re trying to make it sound more flexible. He’s asking people to dedicate their lives to collectively building a harmonious society, and don’t get me wrong, I value treating my family and friends well. I’ve done that, and I’ll keep doing it. But that’s not all my life is made for. My real fear? It’s not about what I leave behind. It’s about losing this—all of it. The taste of this drink, the thrill of landing in a new city, the rush of being alive.
"And Helen, your Platonic framework isn’t much different, is it? You speak of immortality through creation—whether it’s beauty, wisdom, or some grand legacy. But isn’t that just another construct? A way to convince ourselves that we’re not really dying, because some fragment of us might echo into the future? The truth is, even if something I create outlives me, it’s not me. It’s a shadow, a piece of me carved out of the whole, carried forward by others who will inevitably reshape it into their own interpretations. So how can that ever soothe the fear of losing myself?
"I wish I could talk myself out of the fear by convincing myself to 'create a legacy' so my death isn’t the end, or 'devote myself to harmony' so my life has a divine purpose. But maybe I’m too self-centered—selfish, you might say—to be comfortable with death. I just don’t like having to talk myself into one of your cultural contexts to dismiss the thought of death."
"And that, touches the core of the problem we are facing now," the bartender said, stepping closer with a fresh round of drinks, "sorry for interrupting but I happen to have something to share."
"Maybe you don't need a specific context to overcome the terror of death. I see how you are invested in your own enjoyment—otherwise you won't be here to pay for my service—and that's okay. We all want the momentary happiness to last forever but forever and happiness are inherently contrasting with one another." The bartender said, breaking into the discussion, "I don’t think the fear of the end ever really goes away. But maybe the trick is to stop fighting it like it’s an enemy."
"Let me put it this way,” the bartender began, leaning an elbow on the worn wooden counter and looking Ariana straight in the eye. "We live short, fragile lives – and that’s the whole magic of it. Think of it like last call—nobody would care about their drinks if the bar never closed. It's because we know it's ending that every sip counts. If you had all the time in the world, if you never needed to worry about your days running out, what would anything mean? Without loss, how do you cherish gain? Without a final closing act, how do you appreciate the curtain going up at all?
"Right now, you feel fear because you know your future moments are numbered. But that’s the reason a good drink, a good friend, a good journey tastes so sweet. The fact that you won’t get to keep it forever makes this sip you’re taking right now something to savor. Immortality? That’d take away the punchline, the payoff. Nothing to lose means nothing to celebrate. It all turns into background noise—no highs, no lows, just one long stretch of nothing special.
"The fragility and finiteness of life—mortal life—is what drives us to mark our victories, to say, ‘I did it today, and no one can take that from me, even if tomorrow fades or never comes.’ That’s how we find value. Because we lose. Because we end. And trust me, if you’re here, buying a drink, chasing a thrill, you’re already proving that fear and wonder walk hand in hand."
Ariana sighed. "Maybe the reason I keep moving is that I know I won’t always be able to. That scarcity makes it meaningful." She looked at the bartender. "I don’t think I ever caught your name. Who should we thank for this bit of late-night wisdom?"
“Zepto,” they said simply.
Wei tilted his head. “Zepto… that’s an unusual name.”
Helen’s eyes narrowed slightly as if recalling a distant memory. “It’s a Greek-derived prefix. In science, ‘zepto-’ denotes something very, very small—a fraction of a whole so tiny we can barely conceive it.”
Zepto nodded and tapped on the bar. “Small but mighty. Just like each of our finite moments."
Ariana raised her glass once more. “Then let’s toast to that,” she said with a wry smile. “To being zepto. Small, finite—and alive.”
References
Plato. Symposium. Translated by Tom Griffith, Wordsworth Editions Limited, 1997.
Passages cited: 206a, 207d, 210a–212a.
Confucius. The Analects. Translated by Burton Watson, Columbia University Press, 2007.
Passages cited: 11.11, 12.4.
Mill, John Stuart. A System of Logic: Ratiocinative and Inductive, Presenting a Connected View of the Principles of Evidence and the Methods of Scientific Investigation. 1st ed., 1843. Book II, Chapter 3, 24.