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Find What You Love and Let It Kill You

Mark Manson

September 19, 2013

Were all going to die, all of us. What a circus! That alone should make us love each other, but it doesnt. We are
terrorized and flattened by trivialities; we are eaten up by nothing.
Yes, were all going to die. You and me and everyone else. One day and eventually that fateful moment will come
calling and take us all away.
When we die isnt even really the interesting question, as once youre dead you wont be around to care about
what you did or didnt do.
No, the interesting question is how we die. Will it be cancer? Cardiac arrest? Anthrax attack? Choking on a
pretzel?
Me? Im holding out for parachute failure. Or maybe a plane crash. OK, not really, but sometimes when Im on a
plane, and were landing and theres terrible weather I start daydreaming about what a crash would be like the
oxygen masks falling, women shrieking, babies crying; maybe Id reach across the aisle and hold a total strangers
hand in a final dramatic gesture as we wait for the inevitable together. The earth would sweep upon us and
together wed be slammed into eternity.
Luckily that hasnt happened yet. But its exciting to think about.
When we think about our own deaths we typically think about the final moments. The hospital beds. The crying
family. The ambulances. We dont think about the long string of choices and habits which lead to those final
moments.
You could say that our death is a work-in-progress over the course of our lives each breath, each bite, each
swallow, each late night and missed traffic light, each laugh and scream and cry and crashing fist and lonely sigh
they each bring us one step closer to our own dramatic denouement from this world.
So the better question isnt when youre going to die. Its what are you choosing as your vehicle to get there? If
everything you do each day brings you closer to death in its own unique and subtle way, then what are you
choosing to let kill you?

With Passion Comes Pain

The title of this article is a quote from the author and poet Charles Bukowski. This entire article kind of doubles as
an ode to him.
Bukowski was a shameless drinker, womanizer and all-around fuck up. He would get drunk on stage at his poetry
readings and verbally abuse his audience. He gambled a lot of his money away and had an unfortunate habit of
exposing himself in public.
But underneath Bukowskis disgusting exterior was a deep and introspective man with more character than most.
Bukowski spent most of his life broke, drunk and getting fired from various jobs. Eventually he ended up working in
a post office filing letters. All his life he wrote fruitlessly, a total unknown and a loser. He wrote for almost 30 years
before finally getting his first book deal. It was a meager deal. When accepting it, he wrote, I have one of two
choices stay in the post office and go crazy or stay out here and play at writer and starve. I have decided to
starve.
In my opinion, the honesty in his writing his fears, failures, regrets, self-destruction, emotional dysfunctional
it is unparalleled. He will tell you the best and worst of himself without flinching, without shifting his eyes or even
muttering a sorry about that as an afterthought. He wrote about both shame and pride without qualification. His

writing was equanimous a silent embrace of the horrible and beautiful man that he was.
And what Bukowski understood, which most people dont, is that the best things in life can sometimes be ugly. Life
is messy, and were all a little screwed up in our own special snowflake kind of way. He never understood the baby
boomer obsession with peace and happiness or the idealism that came along with it. He understood that you dont
get one side without the other. You dont get love without pain. You dont get meaning and profundity without
sacrifice.
The concept of life purpose has exploded in popularity in recent decades. We dont just want to make money or
build a secure career. We want to do something important. We want to be noticed. We want to be looked up to.
Meaning is the new luxury.
But like any other luxury, we idealize meaning. People believe that all you have to do is find the thing that one
bloody thing! that you are meant to do, and suddenly, everything will click into place. Youll do it until the day
you die and always feel fulfilled and happy and prance with unicorns and rainbows while making a million dollars
in your pajamas.
But we just need that one thing if only we knew what we were meant to do, then everything would fit into place!
And while its possible to brainstorm some ideas to help one get started, finding meaning and purpose is not a fiveday spa retreat. Its a fucking hike through mud and shit with golf-ball-sized hail pelting you in the face. And you
have to love it. You really have to love it.
As Bukowski said, What matters most is how well you walk through the fire.
Finding the passion and purpose in your life is a trial-by-fire process. You dont simply wake up one day and
become happy doing one thing forever and ever. Like death, its a constant work-in-progress. You must try
something, pay attention to how it feels, adjust and then try again. Nobody gets it right on the first try, or the tenth
or sometimes even the two-hundredth.
And then, when you do get it right, its liable to one day change. Because you change.

Writing is easy; all you have to do is sit staring at a blank sheet of paper until the drops of blood
form on your forehead.
Gene Fowler

And what Bukowski understood more than most was that doing what you love is not always loving what you do.
Theres an inherent sacrifice to it. Just like choosing a spouse, its not choosing someone who makes you happy
all the time, its choosing somebody who you want to be with even when theyre pissing you off.
Its something that feels like an inevitability, like you have no choice because this is simply who you are,
dysfunction and all. Its your chosen vehicle towards death. And youre happy to let it take you there. But youre
under no illusions that it wont be a bumpy ride or without surprises along the way.
Your study of speech therapy may lead you to voice acting which may turn into a career in childrens
cartoons and then you may decide at age 55 that childrens cartoons are corrupted by corporate interests
and you spend the rest of your days sketching comics you love but never publish.
Your interest in fitness may lead you to a deeper interest in posture and form which then gets you into
coaching people on body language and sub-communication. This leads you into a consulting business, but
after dealing with the surface level issues for years, you discover that the body molds itself to match
repressed emotions. So you take your big consulting pension, say fuck it, and open up an acupuncture and
massage clinic where you dedicate the last of your days to promoting mind-body awareness.

Just like few of us experience love at first sight, few will experience passion and meaning at first experience. Like a
relationship, we must build it from scratch, piece-by-piece, until after years of brick and sweat, it can stand on its
own.
And once were there, like a plane in full nosedive, we let it take us to our grave, holding hands, blanketed upon
the earth in a laughing roar of wind and fire and love.
Were here to laugh at the odds, Bukowski said, and live our lives so well that Death will tremble to take us.
And when Death does come, how will he take you?
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