Masao Abe Explains Life and Death: Beyond the Illusion of an Afterlife

Photo by Thomas Grams on Unsplash

The first time you seriously think about death is probably when your goldfish belly-ups in its bowl, or you’re staring at the casket of your dog, realizing it’s not going to steal your food this time.

Your parents feed you the usual cliches: “They’re in a better place,” or “You’ll see them again someday.” And you nod even though you feel kinda dumb.

But then along comes Masao Abe, channeling Dogen Zenji’s Shoji (Birth-and-Death), and he’s not here to hold your hand or tell you it’s all going to be fine. Nope.

Abe’s version of comforting is like Santa kicking down your door, stealing your cookies, and saying, “By the way, kid, I’m not real. Good luck paying rent on Christmas.”

Dogen’s view, as Abe explains, flips the whole life-and-death shtick on its head. Life and death aren’t squaring off in some cosmic boxing match. They’re more like the toxic couple who always breaks up and gets back together—inseparable, exhausting, and impossible to tell apart.

Abe writes, “To live always also means to die. Because all is impermanent.”

Translation? Forget the fluffy clouds and pearly gates. There’s no afterlife. No glittery sequel. No happily-ever-after credits rolling to heavenly harp music. What you’ve got is one infinite loop of living-and-dying, like being stuck in a karaoke bar where every song is both a beginning and an end.

Life isn’t a straight road. It’s a Möbius strip made of your worst decisions, your best moments, and a whole lot of impermanence.

Life Is Dying in Real-Time

Abe doesn’t waste time on sugarcoating. We live in a culture obsessed with dodging death—Botox, cryogenics, insurance policies that make no sense if you stop to think about them.

We act like life is a fortress and death is a battering ram, something to stave off or trick. We pump iron, eat kale, and read books with titles like How Not to Die as if any of that will stop the inevitable.

This frantic attempt to escape is what Abe and Dogen call the illusion of separation.

“The understanding of human existence that sees life as having death as its inevitable end presumes life is lived only in opposition to dying,” Abe explains.

We treat death like a deadline, something to beat or conquer. Abe counters with the Zen mic drop: “Present life is understood as something that undergoes continuous living-and-dying.” You’re doing it right now. Sorry.

While we’re busy trying to immortalize ourselves in stone, art, or Instagram, life is happening.

Every breath is the inhale of life and the exhale of death. Every moment is a dance of creation and decay. And yet, instead of reveling in the absurdity of it all, we focus on nonsense: arguing over parking spaces, updating résumés, doom-scrolling social media.

It’s like rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic, but with more Wi-Fi.

Table 1: Abe’s Breakdown of Life and Death

AspectConventional ViewAbe and Dogen’s Perspective
Life and DeathOpposites; death is the end of lifeInterwoven; living-and-dying are one
AfterlifeA place or state post-deathAn illusion; there is no “after”
Meaning of ExistenceTied to overcoming death (immortality)Found in the present, impermanent moment

Explaining It to the Kid

“Alright, kid,” I say, stirring my coffee with the same intensity people bring to staring at abyssal voids. “You ever build sandcastles at the beach?”

“Yeah,” the kid says.

“Well, those castles? They’re alive and dead at the same time.

While you’re making them, they’re already falling apart—the tide’s coming in, the wind’s messing with the towers. That’s life and death.”

The kid looks skeptical. “So, life is just falling apart?”

“Pretty much,” I say. “But here’s the trick—you still build the damn castle. Not because it’ll last, but because it won’t.That’s where the magic is.”

Arguing with the Opposition

Not everyone’s on board with this whole “death-is-life-is-death” idea.

Hell, most people aren’t. They push back, fight it like some kind of animal defending its last scrap of food, as if letting go would mean surrendering to nothingness.

And maybe, to them, it does. These folks hold onto the belief that death’s the end, the finish line where the race stops and you just fall off the track.

They call it materialism, or maybe they just call it cowardice, unwilling to look into the abyss because, frankly, the abyss looks a lot like them.

Then there’s the reincarnation crowd, who think they’ve cracked the code of life’s eternal dance. “The soul persists through many lives,” they say, like it’s a fact, like they’ve seen it themselves in some dream or some past-life regression hypnosis session.

Yeah, the soul’s out there, circling through lifetimes, spinning its wheels like a hamster in a cage. But what are they really clinging to?

The illusion of the self. We’re all just chasing shadows. You can put a new coat of paint on it, slap a “soul” label on it, but it’s still the same damn thing: a desperate grasp at immortality, like a kid clutching a teddy bear because it’s the only thing that feels real in a world that doesn’t make sense.

And Nietzsche, that twisted prophet, came with his idea of eternal recurrence. A joke, right?

Life repeating itself forever, in an endless loop, like a broken record you can’t escape, no matter how hard you scream. No beginning, no end, just an infinite replay of every goddamn thing.

Imagine that. The same misery. Sounds like hell. The same fleeting moments of joy that only make the misery worse. Round and round we go, like a sick carnival ride, stuck in the same spot, wondering when the hell it’ll end. Only it doesn’t. It never ends.

Nietzsche was not wrong, not exactly: life is indeed a cycle—and whether you love it or hate it, it’s coming back to you, again and again. The only thing that changes is how numb you get to it.

But here’s the real truth: arguing about death is like arguing about how a movie ends before you’ve even seen the credits roll.

What’s the point? We’re all sitting here, pretending like we know how it plays out, but none of us have the full script.

Maybe we get a peek at a few pages, but that’s it. It’s like watching a film, half-drunk, and deciding you’ve figured it all out after the first five minutes.

Sure, the signs are there, but you’re too busy arguing over the plot to realize you’re missing the whole damn show.

“Let’s agree on this,” Abe might say, a cigarette dangling from his lips, his eyes bloodshot and wild from too many nights staring at the void. “You don’t know. I don’t know. But while you’re here, while you’re still in this mess, stop acting like life’s a dress rehearsal.

This ain’t some warm-up. It’s the real thing. You’re on stage now. You’re in the play. There’s no ‘coming soon’ at the end of this shit. The curtain falls. So, what are you gonna do with the time you’ve got left?”

Abe’s the type to look death in the eye and laugh, because he knows something the rest of us are too scared to face: death’s coming for us all, but so is life.

And until that final breath, it’s all just noise and smoke. But while the smoke’s still burning, he’s going to make sure he leaves a mark—because life’s too short to play it safe.

The Humor in It

Death, like life, has its absurdity. A monk asked his Zen master, “What happens when we die?” The master replied, “I don’t know.” The monk pressed, “But aren’t you a Zen master?” The master grinned, “Yes, but I’m not a dead Zen master.”

It’s the kind of humor that’s not supposed to be funny, but you laugh anyway.

Like reading Kafka at 2 a.m. and realizing you’re Gregor Samsa in the flesh.

A Darker Dive

But let’s be real: Masao Abe’s perspective doesn’t exactly hand you a cozy blanket and a mug of cocoa. No afterlife? No eternal soul? That can feel like the philosophical equivalent of getting dumped on your birthday.

It leaves you staring into the void, and the void, as Nietzsche promised, stares right back.

Even Abe’s Zen prescription—living in the moment—can feel thin when you’re knee-deep in existential dread. It’s not like life always cooperates.

Rent’s still due. Your boss is still awful. Your favorite show still got canceled.

A Ghost of a Chance

But here’s the thing: the meaninglessness is where the freedom lies. If there’s no certainty of eternal afterlife, then this—right here, right now—is what you’ve got.

So maybe Abe and Dogen aren’t telling you to ignore death.

They’re telling you to stop running from it. Accept it. Laugh at it. Let it remind you that life isn’t something you conquer. It’s something you live.

In the end, Masao Abe’s take on life and death isn’t the warm, Hallmark ending you might want. It’s not a rainbow; it’s a storm.

But storms have their beauty. The dark sky reminds you of the light. The fleeting nature of life reminds you to live.

Will you spend your days building castles that the tide will wash away? Or will you stand on the shore, paralyzed by fear, and miss the point entirely? Life and death are two halves of the same dance. You’re already dancing.

The future isn’t carved in stone. It’s written in every small, stubborn choice you make. Choose wisely. Or don’t. Either way, the tide’s coming in.

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