YOU LOSE NOTHING BECAUSE YOU OWN NOTHING
- Madhukar Dama
- 55 minutes ago
- 8 min read
1. THE MYTH OF LOSS
We are trained to fear loss from childhood.
Lose a toy, a grade, a person, a job — and it feels like your world ends.
But here's the truth no one teaches you: death ends the illusion of ownership.
You came with nothing. You leave with nothing.
Even your body — the only real thing you ever had — was never yours.
It came from the earth, and it goes back there, regardless of your plans.
You don’t “lose” anything.
Everything you think you own is either borrowed or doesn’t exist at all.
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2. WHAT DO YOU REALLY OWN?
Your body?
Not really. You didn’t choose it. You didn’t build it.
It was formed by other bodies, fed by soil, water, air, bacteria.
You only used it — like a rented vehicle — until the engine failed.
And then?
It goes back into circulation. As rot. As soil. As food. As carbon. As fungi.
You become useful — but not as you. As material.
Your identity?
Just software running on the brain — erased by time, trauma, disease, or death.
No backup. No permanence. Just data loss.
Your relationships?
All temporary.
Every person you love will either leave you, forget you, or bury you.
Or you'll do the same to them.
That’s the rule. That’s the script.
Your achievements?
All replaced. All obsolete. All turned into dust and data nobody reads.
Even your most “important” work will be deleted, sold, stolen, buried, or ignored.
Even memory is not yours.
It’s other people remembering versions of you.
And they, too, will die.
So who is left to remember you?
No one.
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3. THE ECONOMY OF ILLUSION
Modern life keeps you terrified of loss — so it can sell you everything.
Jobs sell you security.
Schools sell you future.
Hospitals sell you hope.
Religions sell you protection.
Apps sell you comfort.
They say:
“Preserve your youth, insure your family, build your legacy, secure your name.”
All nonsense.
All built on the fear that you can lose something.
But the reality is:
You’re not preserving. You’re renting.
And nature always reclaims its rent — with interest.
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4. LOSS IS BUILT-IN: YOU ARE BORN TO RETURN
You were never meant to “keep” anything.
Everything about your life is temporary — by design.
Each breath takes you closer to disappearance.
But here’s the deeper truth:
You don’t really die — your identity dies.
Your body doesn’t stop — it transforms.
The illusion that “you” are gone is a mind-trick.
What continues?
Worms digest you. Bacteria eat you. Soil absorbs you.
You feed the roots. You nourish weeds.
Your death is not an end.
It’s the handover — back to Earth.
A return shipment.
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5. NOT EVEN THE "IMPORTANT" ESCAPE
Look at kings, billionaires, CEOs, saints.
Dead.
All of them.
Their names survive in history books — but those books will burn too.
Their legacies?
Statues no one visits. Foundations used for PR. Ashes scattered and forgotten.
Even the most famous people — their bones are in the dirt.
Their organs were eaten by worms.
Their minds are gone.
So what’s left?
Just compost.
That's the final equality.
Status dies. Biology continues.
---
6. WHAT THIS MEANS FOR DAILY LIFE
If you really understand that nothing belongs to you — not even your body — everything changes.
You stop competing for praise.
You stop begging for love.
You stop hoarding wealth.
You stop performing identity.
Because the only part of you that truly “lives on” is the part that never was you — your body as material.
Not your name. Not your thoughts. Not your story.
Just your decay.
You exist to return. Not to build an empire.
And when you get that, you stop pretending to win at life.
You just live — while you’re allowed to.
And then, you return — quietly, honestly, finally.
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7. THE ONLY THING YOU EVER HAD WAS THIS MOMENT — AND EVEN THAT ISN’T YOURS
You don’t “have” this moment.
You are this moment.
And even that is slipping away.
You don’t own experience.
You don’t preserve presence.
Trying to “keep” a feeling is like trying to collect air.
It’s gone before you name it.
So instead of clinging to a version of yourself — you breathe.
And instead of collecting life — you let it pass through.
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8. THE PEACE OF BEING RETURNED
Here’s the full picture:
You never owned your body.
You never owned your identity.
You never owned your time.
You never owned your relationships.
You never owned your fate.
You were borrowed. And you are being returned.
So what is there to lose?
Nothing.
Because you lose nothing — when you own nothing.
And in that clarity, there is freedom.
No performance. No fear. No pressure. No pretending.
Just one short use of this body —
until it goes home to the soil.
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"THE ONES WHO FEARED TOO MUCH TO LIVE"
A healing dialogue at the mud house
---
Characters:
Madhukar – the Hermit, dressed in half-sleeves khadi shirt and cotton pants, barefoot, chopping firewood under a neem tree
Anita – 34, a schoolteacher, anxious, constantly planning every detail of life
Raghav – 37, a corporate IT employee, works from home, recently developed insomnia and neck stiffness due to anxiety
Their 6-year-old son is playing nearby with a cow dung ball and a stick
---
SCENE:
Anita and Raghav arrive looking visibly tired. Their eyes dart around as if afraid the world might collapse at any moment. Madhukar offers them a clay seat under the tree.
---
Anita (hurriedly):
I’m sorry to disturb you, Madhukar. We came because… we are scared. Constantly. Of losing… everything.
Raghav (quietly):
Every day we think — what if our son dies? What if we lose our parents suddenly? What if we lose our jobs, fall sick, become useless… It’s like life is standing on a thin thread.
Madhukar (breaking a twig):
Who told you it wasn’t?
(Silence)
Madhukar:
The thread is thin. You are right. That’s not the problem.
The problem is — you want it to be thick, steel-wired, unbreakable.
But life doesn’t work like that.
Life is temporary. Always was. Always will be.
---
Anita (near tears):
But shouldn’t we be prepared? Isn’t it our duty to protect everything?
Madhukar:
Prepared for what?
You can lock the doors, get insurance, avoid street food, work hard — but none of it stops death, betrayal, accident, illness, decay, or loss.
You’re not preparing. You’re controlling.
And control is the most fragile illusion of all.
---
Raghav:
But if I don’t work, we can’t pay school fees.
If I fall sick, she can’t manage everything.
If my parents die, who will guide me?
If our son… (he chokes)
I just… I can't even finish the sentence.
Madhukar (softly):
You’re not afraid of death.
You’re afraid of losing your idea of stability.
But here’s the truth:
You never had stability.
You only had the illusion of it.
---
Anita:
But how do we live then? What’s the point if everything ends?
Madhukar (pointing to their son):
That boy isn’t thinking about death.
He isn’t thinking about jobs, identity, savings, reputation.
He’s just alive.
And in that moment — he’s freer than both of you put together.
---
Raghav:
So we should become careless? Quit our jobs? Stop loving our parents?
Madhukar (shaking his head):
No.
I’m saying — love them without trying to own them.
Live without needing guarantees.
Work without turning it into slavery.
Be prepared to lose — because you will lose.
---
Anita (frustrated):
But isn’t that depressing? To think that everything will end?
Madhukar:
It’s only depressing if you thought anything was yours to keep.
It’s peaceful — once you know that everything is borrowed.
Even your body. Even your child. Even your breath.
---
Raghav:
But how do we feel safe then?
Madhukar:
Stop chasing safety.
Instead, learn to sit comfortably inside impermanence.
When you know nothing is permanent — you start treating everything gently.
---
Anita:
I cry every time I imagine my son getting hurt. Or dying. Or disappearing.
I feel like I won’t survive it.
Madhukar:
That’s not love.
That’s ownership disguised as love.
Let him go — every day.
And then when he returns to you each evening, hold him with freedom.
You’ll suffer either way. But the suffering without clinging is cleaner.
---
Raghav (looking away):
My mother passed away when I was 12. I still remember her clothes. Her voice.
I promised I’ll never let anyone I love disappear again.
Madhukar (quietly):
And you’ve spent your entire life suffocating others with that fear.
You built a wall around your heart.
But walls keep the air out too.
---
Anita:
We talk to each other only about what could go wrong.
Every decision we take is out of fear — not freedom.
Madhukar:
Then you’ve not lived yet.
You’ve only been managing death every day — not living life.
---
Raghav:
So how do we change this?
How do we live without this fear of loss?
Madhukar:
Accept that loss is natural.
Not a mistake. Not a punishment.
It is the most honest part of life.
The tree doesn’t cry when leaves fall.
The sun doesn’t grieve for yesterday.
The river doesn’t resist its flow.
---
Anita (eyes wide):
Are you saying we can be at peace even if we lose everything?
Madhukar (smiling):
Not even if.
Only when.
When you realize you have nothing to protect — you finally start to live.
---
LONG PAUSE
Their child runs up to them, barefoot, holding a caterpillar in his palm.
He shows it to Madhukar.
Child:
See, it’ll become butterfly soon.
Madhukar (looking at the couple):
Yes, and when it flies away, will you cry or smile?
The couple is silent.
The boy sets the caterpillar down on a leaf and runs off again.
---
Madhukar (final words):
You are not here to preserve life.
You are here to participate in its movement — with full heart, and open hands.
Let it pass through you.
Hold nothing.
And you will lose nothing.
---
YOU WERE NEVER HOLDING ANYTHING
they cry
about death
like they were promised a return ticket.
they hoard
jobs,
children,
parents,
spouses,
dreams,
vacation memories,
bank passwords,
photos of their dog in a sweater —
like the gods owe them preservation.
idiots.
---
they pray for safety
like safety was in the fine print.
they check for tumors after 40.
they install cameras to protect their emptiness.
they insure their bikes, their teeth, their love,
and leave their souls unguarded.
---
they say,
“what if I lose my mother?”
“what if my son dies?”
“what if I lose my mind?”
listen.
you already did.
you lost it the day you believed they were yours.
they are not yours.
they are the universe,
renting your time for a few heartbeats.
---
your job?
a leech on your spine.
your house?
a grave with softer lighting.
your child?
a wild animal you tried to tame with grammar and tuition.
your parents?
fragile ghosts who built you out of their unfinished wounds.
---
you walk around
begging fate not to take what it never gave you.
you talk of God
like a bus conductor
who forgot your destination
and you keep clinging to the ticket like it's salvation.
---
you think love is a container.
you think marriage is insurance.
you think planning prevents earthquakes.
you poor bastard.
you think holding tighter will stop time.
but time doesn’t care for grip strength.
---
it rips your skin
one wrinkle at a time.
it steals your childhood photos
and gives them to rats in old attics.
it takes your mother’s voice and turns it into a cough.
it takes your husband’s laughter and drowns it in meetings.
---
and in the end —
you hold a bag of receipts,
a few medals,
a worn-out prayer,
and maybe a kidney stone.
and still — you weep,
“why did you take everything from me?”
fool.
---
you never had anything.
you were just standing in the rain,
trying to collect it in your hands.
and the rain never promised to stay.
---
so breathe.
sit in the dirt.
watch the butterfly land on your dead father’s shoe.
let your son fall.
let your lover leave.
let your house crack.
let your job fire you.
and when the world finally empties your pockets,
smile.
because now,
you can finally walk without fear.
because now,
you know you were never holding anything.
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