I'm going to be dust in the end, so what wonderous revelry I've been gifted with. None of it will matter, the intent I assign will blow to nothing in the wind. Some of it will be caught, winds of fate taking what was once mine and trickling it across the pages of history. Not ink, not paper, but enough to drag your fingers through. Make impressions of. Our only hope for lasting is the reality that we Try, some intangible intent that mercurially settles into the callouses of those who come after. Your towers and monuments will reduce to dust, crumbled and misunderstood or just so much concrete beneath unknowing tread. But if you start as dust, if you Intend for nothing more than a kind word and your care and consideration to continue on then it doesn't matter if you're known. Your dust persists. You'll never get to see that impact, you must simply have faith that it's not to a void. That enough of You will be carried aloft in the world's most disjointed and horrific crowd surf, an urn aloft in a sea of ashes of people who Gave Better. To people who then give better. Moving forward. That's probably the trick, I think. Both the hope, and the minute nihilism of it. You will never be preserved, but your memory may. You won't leave a mark, but you can leave places better. You are nothing in the scope of the world, but the scope of the world is as far as your finger tips some days and in those days you are Everything. None of us will matter, but enough of us will.
