There are films we watch once to pass the time, and then there are those rare creations that become a part of our personal rituals. For me, Gods of Egypt is exactly that. I cannot even count how many times I have returned to it—perhaps fifty times, maybe more—but every single time I watch it, I find myself captivated by its visual majesty. There is one particular scene that always stops my breath: the moment when the souls are gently guided by Anubis, standing in a magnificent, orderly line, preparing to cross into the afterlife. It is a stunning, peaceful transition. It makes the grand mystery of the end look dignified, calm, and deeply organized.
But if we are to be completely realistic, we know that biology paints a much colder picture. In reality, our existence is like a beautifully engineered motor that eventually runs out of fuel. When the switch is flipped, the screen goes black, and the light is extinguished. It is much like a sudden faint or a deep, dreamless sleep where time completely ceases to exist. We are, in many ways, like a delicate flower plucked from a garden: we bloom for a brief moment, we fade, and eventually, we melt back into the very earth that gave us life, returning to the silent soil. Millions have gone before us, and we too will follow this natural, inevitable cycle.
Yet, even if the light of our candle eventually burns out, the faith we carry in our hearts—like my own deep belief in God—serves a beautiful purpose. Religion and spirituality were not just created to soften the blow of our eventual disappearance; they were designed to make us kinder, gentler, and more human. Without these spiritual anchors, a journey through life would be incredibly cold. If we see someone vulnerable or elderly struggling on the road, it is our moral compass that commands us to stop and help, rather than walking past. Even our traditional rituals, like giving alms or sharing food in memory of the departed, are not really for the dead. They are a sacred excuse to share, to connect, and to bring a little bit of warmth to the living in the name of those we have lost.
This brings us to the only true form of immortality we can hope for: memory. A person only truly disappears when their name is spoken for the very last time. When we lose someone, we often make the mistake of falling into a heavy, awkward silence, as if speaking of them would break something. But the most beautiful thing we can do is to keep talking about them. Every time we share a story, laugh at an old memory, or simply utter their name, we bring them back into the room. Their candle might have burned out, but the warmth of their light continues to travel through us, keeping them alive in the only place that matters—our hearts.
How do you keep the memory of your loved ones burning bright, and what brings you comfort when you look at the great, silent mystery of what lies beyond our short time under the sun?