Life, Death and the Thin Line Between

What would happen if something were erased from our lives, one by one, every day? If we had to erase something to extend our days, what would be the first thing we erase? What do we value the most, and why? Would the value of the least valued thing increase if it were erased?

First and foremost, welcome to my article that invites overthinking. If you're already an overthinker, hello, how's life? What have you been thin overthinking lately? Set those thoughts aside for a moment and imagine what I'm about to say. None of us know when we're going to die, right? Let's say you found out that you're going to die in a week. What would be the first thing you'd think about: what you've done so far or what you haven't been able to do? I'm guessing it would be the things you haven't done. So, why do we focus so much on what we couldn't achieve, giving it so much value? Why don't the things we've experienced feel valuable instead?

I'm pretty sure we all have a list of things we want to do before we die. Which of those could you fit into one week? Would you spend that week in a panic, consumed by the thought of your impending death, or would you chase after experiences to live life to the fullest until your very last moment?

What if you were offered a deal: to extend your life by one day, something in the world must disappear? What would you choose first? Something you consider worthless? What makes that thing worthless, though? What defines what is small and what is big in life?

I don't know what you consider small or big, but I can imagine that the moment you erase something you see as small, its absence will become painful, and it will grow in significance once it's gone. After all, realising the value of something only after losing it is one of life's inevitabilities. I'm sure there's been a moment when you put an old piece of clothing into a donation box, you thought, "Maybe I would have worn it later."

If we're constantly losing things, and we have to lose them — whether it's someone we love or something valuable—why do we live then? Why are we here? Who are we? I'm sure you've thought about all of this under normal circumstances, especially if you're an overthinker or you face existential crises.

I started asking these questions, which I normally contemplate and ask, more frequently after reading If Cats Disappeared from the World by Genki Kawamura. The main character finds out that he will die within a week. A devil appears in his apartment and offers him a deal: "Each time you extend your life by a day, something will disappear from the world." Naturally, our character accepts the deal. With each day, something vanishes from the world—movies, chocolate, cats. Each loss has an impact on people and their lives. You never get to taste chocolate, you've never even heard of it. You don't know what a movie is, and the memories of watching films with others disappear. Along with cats, the relationships you've built with them die too. All the memories you've lived through, all the love you've felt, vanish from the world one by one.

The protagonist realises that death is inevitable. This book also portrays, from a completely different angle, that there is a purpose to living. For every day you are alive, countless things disappear from the world. We die so that those things can continue to exist. But does that mean the line between our birth and death has no value at all? If we die so that other things and people can exist, why do we endure this painful world? Who sacrifices their lives for us to live? Why are some people's lines between birth and death long, and others' short? What determines this cycle? Or is there really a system at play? Or is everything in the world just floating randomly—our lives, the air, our laughter, our tears, memories? I don't have the answers to these questions, dear reader. As the queen of the land of overthinking, it's my duty to ask.

The book reflects themes of death, life, love, and regret through humorous dialogues and a way that prompts philosophical thinking. While the dialogues between the devil and the protagonist make you giggle, you also bid farewell to all the elements that are being erased from the world, and you might even shed tears for them. I mean, I don't know about you, but I cried a lot.

This book made me reflect deeply on life. If I were to erase something I consider the most worthless from the world, the loss of all my memories associated with that thing and the void it would create in the people I shared those memories with made me feel the value of that tiny thing immensely. I clearly saw how something small for me could be significant for others—the value of chocolate for the protagonist, for instance. I cursed at him when he erased chocolate from the world. I asked myself what I would want to do if I found out I was going to die soon and why I'm not doing those things now. Although I sometimes forget that my life has a purpose, I realised that there is indeed a purpose. But, to be honest, it hasn't stopped me from overthinking.

You might not find the purpose of your life while reading, but if you're looking for a light read that makes you both laugh and cry, I can say this book is a good suggestion. Lastly, embrace your cats, and if you ever come across such a deal, please, please don't erase them from the world.