I now wonder, what is there left after we are gone? What stays in our place, when what we call a body is no longer together with the mind or with that which some, the more pious of the lot, prefer to call a soul? Are we nothing but strange occurrences in the flow of what we have agreed to call time? "For what we all are is stories" someone once said, maybe not in those precise words.
Stories we are, indeed, and for the most of us, that is all we leave behind when we're gone. We are memories in the hearts of those who survive us. No wonder the men of old wished so dearly to do acts of such greatness that posterity would remember them in their songs. No wonder did Achilles go to his death, not even flinching, wishing for his name not to fade into oblivion.
In the darkest of your hours, you watch your life behind you and wonder if what you have done does indeed make you worth being remembered and praised. And you wonder, too, why is it that when you know you have done your best and gone beyond yourself, the ones you want to be remembered by have by long forgotten you already.
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