Too Busy to Die
On the absurdity of living while planning to leave
He often wondered: Why am I even alive? Why am I still alive?
It made no sense to him. He had lost all interest in living. Desires and dreams—if they still existed—felt distant and unattainable, no longer worth the effort. Material pleasures were fleeting, insignificant. Nothing came easily. Most of his energy went into mere survival, poured outward into a world that demanded everything and returned almost nothing.
If I am alive, there must be a reason, he told himself. But he couldn’t see it. Everything was dark. Black. No light anywhere. Only the dull sensations of his body—lying there, breathing, stubbornly persisting. Alive for what? He felt like a parasite, consuming resources without purpose.
Hopefully I will not wake up tomorrow morning, he hoped silently every night before going to sleep. But eventually, he always woke up every morning, and so he had to carry on with his miserable life.
He often pictured himself dead. The image brought relief. There was a brief sadness when he imagined his relatives standing around his body, grieving. But overall, peace settled over him. They could move on. One fewer burden. They would heal, forget, and perhaps even feel lighter.
After all, the only way to end suffering is to die, he concluded.
The Decision
The conviction grew until he decided to finally act—not violently, not in secret, but openly and honestly instead. He told his closest family and friends. He explained he was organizing his own departure: a ceremony, a farewell gathering. A death party, really—something dignified, shared, where proper goodbyes could be said.
Most reacted with horror and pleas. But one close friend, Felix, listened quietly. When he finished speaking, Felix leaned in.
“You know,” Felix said, “I’m very interested. Can I come to your ceremony?”
“Of course,” he replied, grateful. “You’re invited.”
“No. I mean, I want to die too.”
He paused, searching Felix’s face. “Are you sure?”
Felix nodded. “I’ve been carrying the same weight. If you’re doing this openly, I’d rather not go alone.”
“Alright,” he said. “We’ll do it together.”
The Growing
They chose a date three months away and booked a quiet venue outside town. They planned to gather, share stories, eat and drink, then take the pills and say goodbye. Peaceful. Transparent.
Word spread gradually. Another friend confessed the same exhaustion and asked to join. Soon there were five, then ten. Strangers reached out through mutual contacts: I’ve felt this for years. If there’s a way to leave without shame, I want in.
By the time a local newspaper picked up the story, the group had grown to thirty. The article dubbed it “The Collective Farewell.”
The Machine
TV crews arrived. Cameras, good lighting, serious faces.
“Tell us, what drives someone to organize their own death?”
“Have you seen the housing market?”
More people joined after the broadcast. A documentary crew appeared.
“Why death?” everyone asked.
“Why not?” Felix would reply—not deep, but sounding deep on camera.
Twenty more joined. Then thirty.
The date approached.
A network producer called: “We’d love to interview everyone, but there are too many now. Could you postpone? Just two weeks?”
They voted. The date shifted.
In those two weeks, fifty more requested entry.
A TikTok account went viral. #DeathParty became a hashtag. Memes proliferated.
“We need to postpone again,” Felix said, staring at a spreadsheet that resembled festival logistics more than mortality planning.
Again.
And again.
And again.
The Realization
Six months after deciding to die, he sat in a hotel conference room, conducting his nineteenth interview.
The journalist, expensive glasses gleaming: “What do you hope to achieve?”
“To die,” he said automatically.
But the word felt hollow. He hadn’t contemplated death in weeks. Too busy. Interview requests. Documentary shoots. The graphic designer insisted their materials needed to be “more on-brand.”
Four postponements. Over three hundred participants.
Merchandise existed. T-shirts proclaiming “I Survived the Death Party”—darkly hilarious given nobody had died.
That night, he lay in the same bed where he’d decided to end everything and realized he was thinking about tomorrow’s schedule, not death.
He was busy.
He was needed.
Perhaps he was alive.
Felix called at midnight.
“Have you noticed we haven’t set a new date?”
“Are we still doing this?”
“I don’t know. We’re swamped right now.”
“Yeah.” Felix laughed—exhausted but genuine. “We’re too busy to die.”
“Maybe next month?”
“Maybe.”
Three Years Later
The Death Party organization has 200,000 registered members worldwide.
A board of directors. Quarterly reports. An HR department handling Karen.
No one has died.
The ceremony date remains “TBD.”
