Memento Mori and Ghost Stories as Existential Therapy
Memento Mori and Ghost Stories as Existential Therapy
The Indian epic Mahabharata remains one of the most profound reflections on society and the deep moral and existential dilemmas we all face. It is perhaps the clearest illustration of how metaphysical truths can help us live meaningful lives—free of fear, doubt, or guilt.
One of my favorite episodes from it is the "Yaksha Prashna" or "The Riddle of the Yaksha," which unfolds during the Pandavas' exile in the forest. The five brothers—Yudhishthira, Bhima, Arjuna, Nakula, and Sahadeva—are searching for water. One by one, the younger brothers come upon a crystal-clear lake and, ignoring a mysterious warning from a crane (who is, in truth, a Yaksha in disguise), drink from it and collapse.
When Yudhishthira arrives and sees his brothers lying lifeless, the Yaksha reveals himself and tells Yudhishthira that he must answer a series of riddles to revive them. Among these is one that cuts through the heart of human delusion:
"What is the most astonishing thing in this world?"
Yudhishthira replies:
“Every day, countless beings die and go to the abode of Yama (the god of death), yet those who remain believe themselves to be immortal. What can be more astonishing than this?”
We build our lives on calendars filled with meetings, deadlines, dinners, anxieties, dreams—and yet the one certainty, death, remains buried beneath it all. In our hyper-capitalistic culture, where even rest must be justified by productivity, we become skilled at forgetting our own impermanence. Innovation thrives, but so does estrangement from our true selves. We move quickly, but we rarely pause long enough to ask whether the direction is worth it.
Children are taught to ignore dark thoughts. Adults pretend that death is something that happens to other people, far away. But what if remembering our death isn’t a source of despair, but the most radical form of clarity?
Memento Mori
The Ancient Romans understood this. After a victorious parade, it is said a slave would whisper into the ear of the triumphant general:
“Memento mori.”
(Remember that you must die.)
This wasn’t a threat. It was medicine—for the ego, for the illusion of permanence. Stoicism, which later echoed the same principle, offered a piercing time management tool: ask yourself, "If I knew I were to die tomorrow, would I still choose to do this today?"
To live well, one must live with death seated quietly at the table.
Ghost Stories as Therapy
This sobering awareness has appeared again and again across cultures—from the Tibetan Bardo Thodol to Zen monks meditating in graveyards. Death, when faced directly, becomes a mirror. It shows us what is real, what is petty, what is urgent.
But let’s bring this into the dim glow of your bedroom. Let’s talk ghost stories.
As a child, I became despondent after first encountering the idea of death. As children, we taste life mostly through joy—birthdays, candy, cartoons—and so the idea of it all vanishing seemed incomprehensible. What frightened me most wasn't that death might bring pain, but that it might bring nothing at all.
No one alive could tell me what lies beyond. The set of possibilities was infinite. The absence of meaning — a blank wall where the story ends — terrified me.
So, I turned to the two great towers of knowledge: science and religion.
Science was too far ahead of me, with its metaphysical questions buried beneath quantum field theory and inaccessible mathematics. So I turned to what I could reach: folklore, mythology, horror.
Most religions diverge in their views of the afterlife. But almost all have one thing in common: they believe in ghosts.
There’s something strangely blissful about watching horror movies at night — that childlike thrill of letting your imagination spiral just far enough. You're wrapped in a blanket, clutching a pillow, heart pounding as shadows flicker across the room. Outside, it's dark and cold. Inside, you're afraid — but you're safe. And in that small cocoon of fear and comfort, most of your real-world worries fall away. Deadlines, arguments, loneliness — they dissolve into the background as you scream at the screen. It’s not about liking fear. It’s about containing it. For once, the monster has boundaries, a runtime, a credits roll. It’s escapism, yes — but also a rehearsal for how to sit with fear without being consumed by it.
I didn’t know it then, but these moments of horror were also moments of healing.
When the World Becomes Too Much
Years later, after reading Marcus Aurelius and Zen koans, I realized I had unknowingly been practicing something close to existential therapy. Amor fati — the love of fate. Contemplation of the void. Stoic detachment. Monastic simplicity. It was all there, hidden beneath the jump scares.
And yes, I have stood inside a graveyard past midnight when life felt too overwhelming.
No drugs. No noise. Just stars and soil and silence. With a friend, of course — horror movies will leave their mark.
You don’t come out of a cemetery thinking about your GPA. You don’t spiral over job rejections. You don’t cry about who left you on read. You remember that you are a blip, a beautiful accident in time, and that this strange miracle of being — this chance to feel and fail and love and hurt — was never owed to you.
And somehow, that makes it more sacred.
Closing Thoughts
"What is the most astonishing thing in this world?"
That we see people die every day — and yet live as if we are immortal.
We race through life as if the clock isn’t ticking. But death — when invited gently into our consciousness — doesn’t rob us of joy. It refines it.
Memento mori is not a threat. It’s a portal.
It will not make you sad. It will make you serious. Not grave, but grounded. Not morbid, but awake.
So if a ghost wanders into your dreams tonight, ask it what it regrets. Ask it what it never said, what it never did.
Then go do that — while you still can.