I think that one of the reasons why people look towards the end

“I think that one of the reasons why people look towards the end of humanity is that people are afraid to die alone. If you die alone, the people you love will miss you, or if they die, you miss them — the sorrow is inevitable. When you truly love someone, the thought of losing them forever is horrible.” — so spoke Joe Rogan, not as the entertainer many know him to be, but as a philosopher of the modern age, pondering the deepest fear of the human heart — the fear of separation. In these words, he pierces through the noise of civilization and touches the oldest wound of mankind: our knowledge that all who love must one day lose, that mortality makes every bond both precious and painful. He reminds us that the shadow of death is not only our own, but falls upon all we hold dear, and that this awareness shapes the way we dream, worship, and seek meaning.

The origin of this quote comes from Rogan’s reflections on mortality and human longing — a contemplation as ancient as the pyramids, as familiar as a mother’s tears. He observes that humanity’s fascination with apocalypse — the end of the world — may not stem from hatred of life, but from our terror of dying alone. For in imagining the end of all things, we imagine a death shared by all, where no one is left behind to mourn or to be mourned. In such an ending, sorrow is dissolved into universal silence. It is, paradoxically, the only death that seems to spare us the agony of separation. Thus, Rogan’s words do not celebrate destruction, but reveal how our longing for togetherness even haunts our thoughts of the end.

At the heart of his reflection lies the mystery of love and loss. To love deeply is to open oneself to pain. Every friendship, every affection, every devotion carries within it a seed of grief, for time will one day part what love has joined. Yet we love nonetheless — fiercely, recklessly, tenderly — knowing this truth. Rogan’s words are not cynical, but compassionate; he sees that the sorrow of loss is the price we pay for connection, and that our fear of loneliness is not weakness, but the very proof of how much we have dared to care. In this way, he reminds us that love and death are bound together, two halves of the same truth: one gives meaning to life, and the other measures it.

Consider the story of Héloïse and Abelard, the doomed lovers of medieval France. Their love defied the strict codes of their time, and for their passion, they were torn apart — he mutilated and sent to a monastery, she to a convent. Yet even in separation, their love endured through letters that spoke of longing beyond time, pain beyond words. “Our separation,” wrote Héloïse, “is the most cruel punishment. Yet even in death, my heart will be yours.” Their story embodies Rogan’s truth: to love truly is to suffer the terror of loss, and yet to love still. They did not fear death as much as they feared being forgotten by one another — for to be remembered in love is, in a way, to live beyond death.

Rogan’s insight also speaks to the collective heart of humanity. We invent myths of apocalypse not merely to frighten ourselves, but to find comfort in shared fate. When the end comes for all, there is no loneliness in dying. The human imagination, in its sorrow and its courage, seeks to make even destruction communal. We find solace in the idea that no one will have to mourn alone, that love, even in its ending, might somehow remain united. Yet in this yearning lies a subtle lesson: that the answer to our fear is not the end of the world, but the deepening of compassion in life. For if the thought of losing others terrifies us, it is only because we have recognized their infinite worth.

And thus we see that the cure for the fear of loneliness is not denial, but presence. The wall between life and death cannot be torn down, but we can meet it with open hearts. To love fully is to accept impermanence; to grieve deeply is to affirm that love was real. When Rogan says, “the thought of losing them forever is horrible,” he speaks for all who have dared to love — parents holding children, lovers facing distance, friends watching one another age. The horror he names is not something to escape, but something to honor — for it reveals the holiness of our attachments, the sacred weight of caring in a fleeting world.

The lesson, then, is this: do not seek to escape sorrow by dreaming of an ending that spares you pain. Instead, live now, love now, knowing that every connection is both fragile and eternal. Let your fear of loss remind you to cherish what is near. Sit longer with those you love. Speak the words you keep hidden. Forgive freely, for time is brief. In the end, the fear of dying alone is answered not by the destruction of the world, but by the creation of intimacy within it.

So let Joe Rogan’s words echo as a modern psalm: “People are afraid to die alone.” Indeed, we are. Yet in that fear lies our humanity. It is the cry of every heart that knows love. Embrace it — for the pain of loss is the proof of having lived, and the shadow of death is only dark because it falls upon something that once burned with light.