I know, I know, dear reader: that’s two words, and they’re not even English.  What the hell?  And I hear ya.  But my wine-dark psyche is absolutely full of ubi sunt these days, so I thought you might want to get in on the action.  Ubi sunt (pronounced OO-bee SOONT) is short for “Ubi sunt qui ante nos fuerunt?” – “Where are those who were before us?”  Roll that around in your head for a beat.  Ubi sunt, the Latin rhetorical question (and more-than-gently existential earworm), asks a deceptively simple question with jagged edges.  On its surface, it might seem to be pining for the “good old days,” but peel back the layers, and what you have is a blunt-force meditation on the ephemerality of all things – you, me, the on-loan future, this whole absurd circus act we call existence.

Etymology’s simple: Latin, medieval, rooted in the kind of poetry monks scribbled while contemplating skulls and candlelight.  Think Beowulf’s mead-hall musings or those old French chansons wailing about dead knights.  It’s a motif, a vibe, a whole damn mood – nostalgia on the surface, but dig a little deeper, and it’s a skull-rattling meditation on mortality, the fleetingness of every goddamn thing.

I’m pretty sure if you’re still reading, you’re either a Ren Faire kid, a caffeine-riddled lit major, or a hyper-literate goth stumbling through existential malaise.  In which case, the following examples of ubi sunt in the wild are for you: try out The Wanderer, an Anglo-Saxon poem dripping with melancholic ubi sunt.  Or Villon’s Ballade des dames du tempt jadis, which asks, “Where are the snows of yesteryear?”  Spoiler alert – they melted, dickhead.  What emerges from these texts isn’t just nostalgia but a mosh pit of mortality, loss, and the brutal and cruel recognition that the people, things, and selves we once knew are irreversibly gone.  Did I just describe your internal monologue at 2 a.m.?  Sorry, dear reader, that’s my specialty.

These days, I’m spending way too much time staring into the void, wondering what the point is when The Reaper’s got us all on speed-dial.  Life is a cruel little carnival ride – bright lights, cheap thrills, and before you know it, the carny’s kicking you off into the dirt.  Ubi sunt isn’t just some dusty Latin phrase; it’s the question clawing at the back of my throat when I’m three whiskey’s deep, wondering where the heroes, the lovers, the friends, the whole damn parade of my younger days went.  Where’s the kid who thought he’d burn brighter than a supernova, then die before anyone else?  Where’s the fire that used to keep me up all night, scribbling manifestos on bar napkins?

The significance of ubi sunt, for me – for us, you and me, compadre – is that it’s a mirror held up to the relentless churn of time.  It’s not just nostalgia for the good ol’ days (though, Christ, don’t we all miss those?) but a reckoning with the fact that everything – everything – is temporary.  Your triumphs, your failures, the nights you felt invincible, the mornings you woke up tasting ashes – they’re all slipping through your fingers like sand.  The medieval poets got it: they’d wail about kings and warriors moldering in graves, their swords rusting, their names fading like smoke.  Me, I’m wailing about the bars that closed, the friends who drifted, the dreams that got lost in the mail.  Ubi sunt forces you to face the transience of it all, the way life’s a poker game where the house always wins.

And yeah, sometimes that makes it all feel like a pointless folly, a cosmic joke told by a comedian with a sick sense of humor.  I sit here on this Sunday afternoon, nursing a glass of something amber and unforgiving, and I can’t help but think: what’s the fucking use?  Why keep scribbling, fighting, loving, when it’s all gonna end up in the same trashcan.  But here’s the thing, dear reader…a little spark in the dark: ubi sunt isn’t just about despair.  It’s about defiance, too.  It’s about raising a glass to the ghosts, to the ones who came before, and saying, “I’m still here, you bastards.”  It’s about writing one more sentence, kissing one more woman, throwing one more punch, because even if the void is waiting, you can make it wait a little longer.

So, here’s to ubi sunt, to the ache of what’s lost and the fire of what’s left.  Where are they now, the ones who were before us?  Gone, of course, but their echoes linger in the stories we tell, the drinks we pour, and the words we hurl into the night.  And where are we?  Right here, for now, spitting in the face of oblivion.  Keep raging, keep writing, keep living – because even if it’s fleeting, it’s ours.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a bottle and a chapter to finish, and a universe to curse.

N.P.: “Left For Dead” – Tribe of Judah