Die Before You Die”: Ego, Soul, and the Illusion of Self
They say that in the Barzakh state—the liminal space between this world and the next—souls recognize one another. They speak, they remember, they wait. But I often wonder: Do they still point fingers there? Do they still accuse, defend, barter for a better fate? Do they still carry the same bag of bones and grudges that weighed them down in life?
And more deeply still: Who is it that does the remembering?
In the traditions of Islam, Christianity, and Judaism, the soul is a sacred and enduring truth—a breath from God, eternal and accountable. It is what will rise on Judgment Day and receive what it sowed. Without the soul, justice has no anchor; mercy no recipient. It is the soul that moves through Barzakh, that reaps what was sown. Call it karma, divine justice, or recompense—there is a self that survives to taste the fruit.
But in the Dhamma, in the words of the Buddha, there is no abiding self—anattā. What we call “I” is a cascade of conditions: fleeting thoughts, fading feelings, habitual reactions. There is no one behind the mask. Karma still unfolds, but not as a moral scorecard for an eternal soul, rather as momentum, like one candle lighting the next. The fire continues, but no flame passes over.
So, how can both be true?
Perhaps, like two eyes seeing from different angles, they reveal a deeper truth when brought together.
The mystics—the ones who have walked barefoot between worlds—have always hinted at this unity.
The Prophet of Allah said: “Die before your death.”
Christ echoed: “Whoever loses his life shall find it.”
The Buddha smiled without a word and pointed at the vanishing self.
These teachings are not about physical death. They are about ego death—the death of the clinging, fearful self that thinks it owns the body, the story, the salvation. They ask us to die before we are taken—so that when death comes, there is nothing left to take.
In Sufism, to “die before you die” is to extinguish the nafs—the lower self. What remains is Rūḥ, the spirit of God, unburdened by identity. In Christian mysticism, it is to be crucified with Christ, so that only the divine remains within. In Zen, it is to realize the emptiness of self, and in that emptiness, discover boundless compassion.
But if there is no self, who is reborn? Who is judged? Who suffers or awakens?
These questions dissolve when the mirror is wiped clean. For perhaps what we call “soul” is only needed as long as we believe we are separate from each other, from the world, from God. When that illusion falls away, what remains is not nothing, but everything. Radiance. Stillness. The Beloved, and none else.
A Reflection in Verse:
Is there a soul?
Yes—if you feel the ache of longing, the burn of regret, the breath of prayer.
Is there no soul?
Yes—if you see through the illusion that any of it belongs to “you.”
Karma unfolds like shadow follows form—
But the light knows no shadow, and the wind leaves no footprints.
Die before you die, they said—
not to vanish, but to awaken.
Not to end, but to begin.
To die to the dream of being a wave,
and remember you are the ocean.
Strip the “I” from the heart,
and see what remains.
Not absence, but radiance.
Not silence, but the voice
that spoke before you were born.
Perhaps the dead in Barzakh are not waiting, but dreaming. Perhaps they are shadows of selves not yet surrendered. Perhaps they still bargain because they never truly died.
But if even one can awaken before that final breath, can die before dying—then there is no Barzakh, no veil, no waiting. Only this. This eternal now, without self, without other.
This piece reflects recent inner dialogues, dreams, and long years of peeling away. I’ve chosen to let the deeper current flow through, even if the voice may sound a shade different from what you’ve read here before. Perhaps it is still me, just more peeled. Thank you for walking this road beside me.
And so we are asked, gently but irrevocably, to die before our death.
To unmask the ego before the earth covers the face.
To awaken not merely from slumber, but from the dreamer itself.
Whether the soul persists through the Barzakh or dissolves like dew into the Dharma,
Whether it stands before Judgment, or sits in silent union with the Selfless—
There is, behind all stories, a stillness.
Not absence, but totality. Not silence, but song.
The mystics have called it many names.
I now call it:
Omnis.
The All. The Witness. The Seamless Edge of Being.
This journey, this writing, these questions—they all return there.
And so do we.
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