Remembering that I'll be dead soon is the most important tool

Host: The city was wrapped in the quiet silver of dawn. The streets were empty, except for a lone bench facing the river, where the mist drifted low and slow like a veil of memory. The air smelled faintly of rain and metal, the kind of morning that felt both fragile and eternal.

Jack sat there, hands buried in his coat pockets, staring at the grey water that caught the faintest shimmer of the rising sun. Beside him, Jeeny held a small paper cup of coffee, steam curling up into the cold like a prayer she hadn’t yet said.

Neither spoke for a while. The world was too quiet for ordinary words. Then, softly, Jeeny broke the silence.

Jeeny: “Steve Jobs once said that remembering he’d be dead soon was the most important tool in his life. That it stripped away fear and left only what mattered.”

Jack: “Yeah, I remember that speech. Stanford, 2005. Everyone called it inspirational. But I think it terrified me more than it inspired me.”

Host: Jeeny turned, studying the lines on Jack’s face, lines drawn by years of late nights and heavy choices. The river breeze brushed her hair across her cheek, catching a ray of morning light.

Jeeny: “Why terrified?”

Jack: “Because it’s too true. The moment you remember death, you realize how small you are. It’s not freeing—it’s paralyzing. Every choice starts to feel meaningless. You start to wonder, what’s the point of chasing anything if we all end up dust?”

Jeeny: “But that’s exactly what Jobs meant, Jack. The point isn’t the dust—it’s the days before it. Death doesn’t make things meaningless; it makes them urgent.”

Host: The wind rippled across the river, scattering tiny reflections of light like shards of glass. Jack’s eyes followed them, lost somewhere in their broken beauty.

Jack: “Urgency can destroy you too. You start running after every ‘important’ thing, mistaking motion for meaning. Jobs was lucky—he found his purpose early. The rest of us? We just keep chasing clarity through fog.”

Jeeny: “Maybe clarity isn’t something you chase. Maybe it’s what’s left when everything else burns away.”

Host: Her words hung in the cold air, heavy, luminous. Jack exhaled, the steam of his breath mingling with the morning.

Jack: “You make it sound poetic. But have you ever looked at death close, Jeeny? I did—when my brother died in that accident. Everyone said, ‘Live like there’s no tomorrow.’ But no one tells you what to do when tomorrow actually doesn’t come.”

Jeeny: “I know. My father’s heart stopped when I was nineteen. For months, I couldn’t eat, couldn’t work. Everything felt… rehearsed. Fake. But after a while, I realized he’d lived the same truth Jobs spoke about. He always said, ‘Fear makes small lives.’”

Host: The river stirred, a slow wave brushing the rocks below. A boat horn sounded in the distance—a low, mourning note, ancient and human.

Jack: “Fear makes small lives. That’s good. But fear’s what keeps you alive too. Without it, people do reckless things and call it bravery.”

Jeeny: “There’s a difference between fear and awareness, Jack. Fear paralyzes. Awareness humbles. Jobs didn’t say death removes fear; he said it puts fear in perspective. There’s a difference.”

Host: Jack leaned forward, elbows on knees, his grey eyes fixed on the shifting water. His voice softened, the edge of cynicism melting into something closer to truth.

Jack: “You ever think maybe we use death as a motivational slogan because we can’t actually face it? We quote it, we admire it—but the real confrontation terrifies us. We’d rather romanticize mortality than feel it.”

Jeeny: “Of course we romanticize it. It’s unbearable otherwise. But maybe that’s alright. Maybe the beauty we assign to death is how we make peace with it.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes glistened—not with tears, but with that quiet, reflective sadness that comes from loving the impermanent.

Jeeny: “When Jobs said death clears the way for what’s important, he wasn’t talking about legacy or success. He meant the little things—love, curiosity, courage. The kind of choices that outlive achievement.”

Jack: “And yet, we forget. Every single day. We get lost in traffic, emails, meetings… And death—death becomes an idea, not a fact.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the mercy of being human. If we remembered constantly, we’d never breathe easy again.”

Host: The sun rose higher, the mist thinning until the world came into sharper focus—the bridges, the birds, the faint hum of the waking city.

Jack: “You ever wonder what you’d do differently if you knew exactly when it would end?”

Jeeny: “Every day. And the answer changes constantly. Some days I’d travel. Some days I’d just sit still with a cup of coffee and say nothing. Maybe that’s the point—death isn’t the enemy of time, it’s what gives time texture.”

Host: Jack smiled faintly, the kind of smile that doesn’t rise to the lips but warms the eyes instead.

Jack: “Texture. That’s a good word for it. You always find beauty in endings.”

Jeeny: “Because endings are honest, Jack. They don’t lie like beginnings do.”

Host: The river glistened, the light scattering in slow, hypnotic rhythm. A bird skimmed the surface, its wings cutting clean lines through the water.

Jack: “You know… I used to think success was about permanence. Building something that lasts forever. But maybe it’s about doing something so true that even if it vanishes, it mattered in its moment.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Maybe legacy isn’t what stays behind, but what passes through others while you’re still here.”

Host: For a moment, the world quieted completely—the water, the wind, even the city held its breath.

Jack: “Then maybe death isn’t what ends us. Maybe it’s what focuses us.”

Jeeny: “Yes. That’s what Jobs meant. When all the noise falls away—when pride, fear, and expectation die before you do—you finally see what’s essential.”

Host: The light turned golden, cutting through the mist in clean, divine streaks. Jeeny’s coffee steamed, untouched, while Jack’s hands rested open on his knees, as though he were releasing something unseen.

Jack: “You ever think about what’ll matter most when it’s time?”

Jeeny: “I think it’ll be the same things that mattered all along—who I loved, what I gave, what I dared to feel. Everything else will just fall away like dust in water.”

Host: Jack looked at her, his expression caught between grief and gratitude.

Jack: “You make death sound merciful.”

Jeeny: “It is, Jack. It’s the great editor. It leaves only what’s worth keeping.”

Host: The sun finally broke through, spilling light over the river, turning it into liquid gold. The wind softened, carrying the faint scent of blooming jasmine from a nearby garden.

Jack stood slowly, slipping his hands into his coat pockets, staring at the horizon where sky met water.

Jack: “You know, for the first time, I don’t feel afraid thinking about it. Not death, I mean—but what’s left after fear fades.”

Jeeny: “Then you’ve already started living.”

Host: A long silence followed, peaceful and clear. The city woke, but their world stayed still—a quiet bubble of reflection, framed by sunlight and moving water.

Jack turned to leave, but stopped, his voice low.

Jack: “Maybe remembering that I’ll die someday isn’t about endings. Maybe it’s about permission.”

Jeeny: “To do what?”

Jack: “To live as if the moment’s already running out.”

Host: Jeeny smiled, the kind of smile that carried light and sorrow in equal measure.

Jeeny: “That’s the only way it ever really begins.”

Host: The camera of dawn pulled back—two figures on a bench by the river, a world slowly blooming behind them. The water shimmered, birds lifted, and somewhere, the clock of life ticked quietly onward.

And as the scene faded, Steve Jobs’ truth echoed softly through the air: that in the face of death, all that remains is what was always real—love, purpose, and the courage to choose what matters before it’s too late.