I used to write all the time. This was before the bulk of my thoughts became a stream of 140-character musings. I lack the patience for full paragraphs now. I lack the discipline it takes to be thoughtful in black and white type. But still, I try.
Who's going to read this shit? Perhaps a few folks. And then many more, should I happen to die a tragic, untimely death. That's when people really start to pay attention.
With every day that passes, a 24-hour slice of our lives is gone forever. This isn't meant to sound dismal, but mortals are finite creatures. The end will come and death is the surest thing the earth plane has to offer.
With the distant passing of my brother and the recent passing of my father, I've begun to wonder about legacy and the responsibility of a life well-lived. How much does legacy really matter, when other humans will likely distort your time on earth to fit their own ideals anyway?
What if you saw yourself one way and the world about you remembers you as someone else entirely? How many pseurdo-martyrs are rolling over in their graves as we force our living, breathing agendas onto their decomposing bodies?
I consider what the two men in my family of origin left behind, and find that their lives have meant different things to different people. I wonder what they'd think about the stuff folks have to say about them in their most final of absences. Is it accurate? Is it true to their authentic experience? Or rather a jungle of interpretations crafted only to make sense of human beings who were never meant to be understood?
I suppose all of these questions are the reason why I still write. And perhaps unlike my kin, what I really want, is for the world to agree upon who I was when I'm gone.