Since the day of my birth, my death began its walk. It is walking toward me, without hurrying.

Death walks beside you, always unhurried

We spend so much time pretending this isn't true. We plan our retirements, our bucket lists, our next decade as though there's a guarantee attached. But Cocteau's point isn't morbid—it's actually liberating. Knowing that mortality isn't some distant threat but a constant, unhurried companion changes how you move through a day. It's the difference between intellectually understanding you could die tomorrow and actually feeling it in your bones.

The strange comfort here is that death isn't rushing. There's no urgency to it, which means there's also no urgency to panic. You don't have to live as though everything matters equally or that you need to cram every experience into this month. Instead, the quiet walk alongside you gives permission to be selective about what you spend your finite time on. It asks: if death is always present anyway, what does that make actually important?

This lands differently now than it might have decades ago. We're drowning in urgent notifications and manufactured crises, everyone shouting that you need to achieve more, experience more, buy more today. Cocteau's measured image—death simply walking, not sprinting—is almost a relief. It suggests there's time. Just not infinite time. That's worth knowing.