A Cure for Cancer - Oct 5 2026

 

A Cure for Cancer

Oct 5 2026

Yes, cancer was finally cured,

artificial hearts

have replaced the failed ones,

and it’s been found

that an elixir

infused into old brains

rejuvenates even the balkiest.

So we all now live forever.

What then?

Eternal life

but no room on earth for newborns?

No new blood

to replace the incumbents 

who are increasingly bored

and fixed in their ways?

They don’t dodder anymore,

but there are only so many times 

you can replace a hip.

And how soon until the daily jog palls,

how long 

the wait for eternity?

I’m not saying a ripe old age is punishment,

but isn’t a life sentence

without chance of parole 

deemed cruel and unusual

even by criminal law?

Just imagine, no parenthood, no family.

No arc to life,

and with time immaterial

no urgency,

no need

not to put things off forever.

Which may be why it’s been said

that death gives life meaning.

Or at least, impels us to seek it out.

Forever is like a poem

written without constraints;

no rhyme or pacing,

line breaks wherever,

and distillation be damned.

Would it even be a poem?

Or would it be a single run-on sentence

that never ended

and no one wanted to read?

Great art, it would seem, depends on limits.

I think of all the crumpled pages

scrawled with false starts

scattered  on the floor,

the masterpieces

painted over failed tries.

I think of evolution

without life and death.

There would be no peacocking birds, lichens and trees

and no human beings;

life on earth

would be just single-celled creatures

in an airless sea.

Not to say we’re its greatest work of art,

but we’re at least a rough outline

a good first draft.

And I think of the fly

added to the portrait of the wealthy man,

a momento mori

in an unobtrusive corner

hanging on the wall.

A harbinger

to keep him humble,

a reminder

that death comes for us all.

And perhaps a reminder

that eternity is no cure.

That death doesn’t need one.

And that wishing for an end

that never comes

could be its own version of hell.

Today, in another article about AI, one of its many cheerleader once again dangles the tempting old cliche of finding a cure for cancer. (Which, btw, conveniently ignores the biological fact that cancer is not a single disease. “A cure” for cancer is a misnomer; it should be “the cures”. There will be no magic bullet. Just as there is no single antibiotic that kills every kind of bacteria.)

It strikes me that the tech bros who are championing AI are the same people (actually, the same men) who are keen on life extension; the types who would jump at eternal life,  if they could. And who think that they — above and beyond the rest of all of us non-billionaires — are uniquely entitled to live forever. Such self-regarding vanity. Such solipsistic ego. 

So what if every disease — not just cancer —  was cured? Whether by AI super-brains,  or simple human ones. What would be the sociological and anthropological ramifications of eternal life? (Not to mention the psychological ones.) Because you can’t just think about the sovereign individual; you have to consider society as a whole.

(Nevertheless, after that pious high-mindedness, I have to admit that the closer to death I become, the more attractive life extension gets to this particular sovereign individual. I understand the complexity and potential drawbacks; but given a choice, I’d take my chances!))

Yes, great art does depends on limits, and constraints are key to creativity. So I apologize for the length of this poem. Not quite a run-on sentence that never end(s), but — as usual — longer than I’d ideally like it to be. I guess I always have just too much to get off  my mind!