Randomly born, randomly died, why so much struggle for?

Randomly born, randomly died, why so much struggle for?

You die as you were born randomly, unexpected. A Thursday or a Monday, any hour, day or night, here or there.

You keep things: gold, money, notices, books, pets, friends, gardens, cars, wardrobes. Accumulated horseshit for when you die. You’ll leave it all here. Nobody really cares. Nobody really needs it. Nobody.

All your struggle, knowledge, skills, addresses, phone numbers, memories of first kisses, sweet sixteen, favorite plates, hugs, smiles, lust, nipples — everything you lived here — sinks like a shipwrecked vessel, and its sailors are gone forever, never to be found again.

What can you leave here? A poem, a song, a painting, a piece of theater — those are forever. You can leave a little equation in the architecture of our civilization, a letter in the book of everything history, a stirring in the well of destiny of humanity. Then you become a historic figure.

All you leave is not you, but your imprint. Your forever light of comprehension woven in the fabric of time, kept by humanity.

You were here for a moment, like an ant, and you leave behind a pile of things like a nest of a new genre: a humanized pile of almost useless trash. Soon to be destroyed, and if not, forgotten. Maybe remembered from time to time. Maybe your name will come alive in some isolated mouth, vibrating again in the conscience of the universe like your mom used to call you.

Enjoy while you can. Don’t burden yourself with illusions made of stuff. All stuff will disappear and almost nothing will be left — like water poured in the desert sand. You lasted the space of the pouring.

You were. You were… You were.