A boy once asked me:
“How do you want to be remembered?”
Just a way of making
casual conversation
to fill the empty space.
I almost said:
“No one is remembered, not really.
We all fade,
and yet,
there is always an effort
to be real.
Everlasting.
Undying even in death.
We are but a flower in the heat of summer, a wave upon the shore.”
No one is eternal.
I did not say that though.
I just smiled,
a liar's smile
and spoke meaningless words.
Something about writing a book.
Ink lasts,
until it doesn’t.
Thoughts memorialized,
the beautiful
and
the ugly.
Ripped, torn, judged by future generations.
Do we want to be remembered?
I never said the last part either.
And so the conversation continued,
lighthearted, insubstantial.
Empty words for empty people.
Soon to be forgotten.
No one wants to be remembered.
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