There's only two things. There's life, and there's death.

The words of John Prine, when he said, “There’s only two things. There’s life, and there’s death,” are as simple as a whisper and as vast as eternity. Beneath their plainness lies a wisdom as old as the mountains — a truth that humbles kings and comforts the weary. Prine, a poet of the ordinary, spoke with the clarity of one who had seen the full circle of existence: joy and sorrow, birth and decay, the laughter of beginnings and the silence of endings. In this brief sentence, he distilled all philosophy to its purest essence. All things, he reminds us, belong to one of two realms — life, where motion, growth, and choice dwell; and death, where all becomes still, and the soul returns to mystery.

In the speech of the ancients, this was known as the duality of existence — the eternal dance between being and non-being. The sages of the East called it yin and yang; the philosophers of Greece spoke of Eros and Thanatos, creation and destruction, the pulse and the pause. Prine’s words carry the same eternal rhythm, but uttered through the voice of a modern troubadour — a man who saw the sacred not in temples or scrolls, but in the laughter of small towns, the struggles of everyday people, and the inevitable march of time. His quote is not a lament; it is a reconciliation — a gentle acceptance that all we love, all we fear, and all we are will one day pass from life into death, and perhaps back again into something we do not yet know.

The deeper meaning of his saying lies in its invitation to clarity. When we strip away the illusions of wealth, fame, ambition, and pride, what remains? Only life and death — the beginning and the end, the inhale and the exhale. Everything else — the struggles, the distractions, the anxieties of men — are but shadows cast between these two lights. To live wisely is to see this truth not with despair, but with serenity. When one remembers that death waits for all, each day becomes a gift; each moment, a sacred offering. The ancients taught that the man who walks beside death walks most fully in life, for he understands the value of every breath.

Consider the story of Siddhartha Gautama, the prince who would become the Buddha. Sheltered from pain, he lived surrounded by comfort and joy. But one day, upon leaving his palace, he encountered three sights that changed him forever: an old man, a sick man, and a corpse. It was then he understood the truth that Prine would echo centuries later — that all who live must one day die. From that revelation came compassion. From compassion came peace. To see life and death as one continuous stream is to awaken to wisdom; to pretend that life is all there is, is to live asleep.

And yet, Prine’s words are not somber — they are tender, even playful, like the music he wrote. For he saw beauty in both sides of the coin. To him, life was a song, short and sweet, and death was simply the silence that followed — not a tragedy, but a part of the tune. He did not speak as one who feared death, but as one who had learned to love both its presence and its inevitability. For when one accepts that death gives meaning to life, one ceases to cling, and begins to live freely, joyfully, courageously.

The lesson, then, is this: do not complicate the miracle. Between birth and death, everything is fleeting — laughter, pain, love, loss — all passing clouds in a vast sky. Do not waste your days in bitterness or fear. Love deeply, speak kindly, forgive quickly, and create something beautiful before the silence returns. If you know that only two things exist — life and death — then choose, each morning, to dwell in the first with gratitude.

And when the time comes to cross into the second, do not tremble. For to die is not to be lost; it is to return. As the ancients said, the seed must fall to the earth before the flower can bloom again. So let us honor both life and death, not as enemies, but as partners in the same divine rhythm. And may we, like John Prine, walk the roads of this world with music in our hearts — knowing that the song is short, but its echo is eternal.