Death seems to be a long way off. Is this not shallow thinking?

In the solemn words of Yamamoto Tsunetomo, the samurai philosopher of the Hagakure, there resounds the austere wisdom of a warrior who has stared unflinchingly into the impermanence of all things: “Death seems to be a long way off. Is this not shallow thinking? It is worthless and is only a joke within a dream. It will not do to think in such a way and be negligent. Insofar as death is always at one’s door, one should make sufficient effort and act quickly.” These words are not a meditation on despair, but a command to awaken—to see life as it truly is, fragile and fleeting, and to live with the urgency and purity that such knowledge demands.

In the ancient code of Bushidō, the way of the warrior, the awareness of death was not morbid but sacred. To remember one’s mortality was to sharpen one’s spirit. Tsunetomo, writing in the early 18th century, lived in a Japan where the age of battle had passed, yet the warrior’s soul remained restless. He saw that in times of peace, men became complacent, drunk on the illusion that tomorrow would always come. To him, this forgetfulness was worse than cowardice—it was a spiritual sleep. Thus he wrote, warning all who sought the way: to think of death as distant is to live half-alive, to wander through life as though dreaming in a house of smoke.

“Death is always at one’s door,” he says—not as a curse, but as a truth. For what man can know his final hour? It may come in battle or in silence, in youth or in age. The wise do not flee from this knowledge; they bow before it, and in doing so, they become free. To live with death beside you is to cast off vanity, to see time as the precious and vanishing gift it is. Such a man no longer hesitates, no longer wastes his days in idle longing. Every breath becomes deliberate, every word sincere, every act charged with meaning.

Consider the tale of Miyamoto Musashi, the wandering swordsman who fought over sixty duels and yet wrote of the stillness that accompanies perfect readiness. Musashi, like Tsunetomo, understood that the awareness of death is the source of mastery. When the warrior ceases to fear the end, he acts without hesitation. His sword moves as if guided by heaven itself, his heart steady and his mind clear. Those who imagine they have time to spare—who think death far away—are forever paralyzed by doubt, forever postponing their destiny.

The shallow thinking that Tsunetomo condemns is the complacency that numbs the soul. To say “I have time” is to waste it; to say “I will do it later” is to live as though life were eternal. But the samurai knew otherwise. The cherry blossom, symbol of their spirit, falls at the height of its beauty, unafraid, ungrasping. So too should we live: not clutching at safety, but blossoming in the full awareness that every moment could be our last. To act quickly, as Tsunetomo commands, is not recklessness—it is reverence. It is to recognize that hesitation is the thief of life.

This teaching extends far beyond the battlefield. It speaks to all who walk the path of purpose—artist, parent, leader, dreamer. Do not delay the work of your heart, for the future is never promised. Begin now. Speak the words of love before silence takes them. Forgive before regret hardens into stone. Create, serve, and strive while your hands are strong. For to act swiftly in the face of mortality is not to fear death—it is to honor life.

Yamamoto Tsunetomo’s wisdom is a torch passed down from a time when men lived as if every dawn might be their last—and thus, each dawn was sacred. Let his words remind us: death is not an enemy but a companion, walking always a step behind. If we remember this, our actions will be decisive, our hearts humble, our spirits fierce and free.

Therefore, let this be your practice: wake each morning as though you have already died and been granted one more day. Use it well. Waste nothing. Fear nothing. For in the end, the man who walks with death at his door does not shrink from life—he becomes its truest master.