"We're all going to die one day.
And nothing we say or do will ever matter.
Eventually our 'legacy' call what we may, will become redundant and be lost to time forever.
I'd like to think I'm a rhetoric. Someone who evens the odds.
Someone who just not tells stories but will one day inevitably do something that is worth its share of retelling.
And I'd like to think my past is an indication of my future. The songs I sing, the precursor to the ones that I'll have written.
And sung, in my name.
At other times, times like this one, I realize the seemingly universal truth.
That which eludes the tranquil nature of the state of fluid state of cognizance.
It is not what you do. Or how other people see it. It is how it is, not how it is supposed to be.
The people that I see, you see, or anyone else sees, they don't really see you.
They see an empty shell. The broken refrains of a once mighty individual.
Mighty, again… is debatable.
The lofty dreams of a diffident child.
But a hero doesn't always rise from the underling.
Nor is it necessary that he always be worshipped as one in his prime,
It can be a day.
A month. A year.
A thousand years after his time.
He might be looking down from the stars.
He might not.
He might know he has been appreciated.
He might not.
This endless battle of the mights and might nots knock even the mightiest of aspirations and grind them into nothingness.
And from that nihility comes he back, a champion. A gladiator rises to avenge, you might want to hear.
That doesn't happen.
Have you ever seen wreckage repair itself?
Have you seen the dead come back to life?
It isn't always transposable, this world.
It's interwoven and interesting.
It's a world of information.
And that, is the only truth.
How do you do it, now?
Regardless of you'll be remembered for it or not.
Regardless of if you'll remember it or not.
I'd like to have started… nay ended with a high note.
Follow your dreams.
Or dreams come true, eventually.
Or make your own dreams.
But it doesn't happen that way.
The world is cruel and uninteresting.
As said by Frost, overlooking a desire seldom given to,
The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep.
And miles to go before I sleep.
And miles to go before I...”
Art by Selina Saranova