When you’re gone how would anyone know that you were ever here?  Or even now, sitting here – how would anyone ever know that anyone was ever here?

They won’t. You, I, we will fold into the intricacies of time.  Lost and unspoken, like many who have come before us.

For me it will be more of the same – being lost and unspoken.

I’m a year older now. A year to wonder. A year to realize that I haven’t really accomplished anything.  A year to wonder, why is it me that is still here.

Some people live for the moment. Some people live for their friends, families. Some live for their passion. Most people mechanically live through the day – never stopping, never musing to wonder what it it all about.  I guess I’m living for the future, in the hope that I’ll leave something great behind, somehow.

I don’t know what that would be.

I don’t even know that will even happen.

I’m English major and I’m currently reading 18th century literature. Alexander Pope, Jane Austen, Johnathan Swift, Mary Astell and so on – what did they live for? I don’t know. No one can ever truly know. Yet it feels like we know know them somehow, through their writings…through what they left behind. This exists in other mediums too – it’s not limited to literature – it can be painters, musicians, filmmakers, photographers, other artists and the list goes on. It can people of discovery – of anything from distant planets to viruses, I suppose even though that may be a bit less personal.  Just anything. Everything.

But most of us will fall into history, descend into the soil and seep deeply into the roots of what is to come. Once again it will be as you never existed, never happened and you were never here. You never stood here. You never sat here. You never spoke, never wrote, never breathed. Because you were never here. Yet you were.

Even today will fall into history and maybe someday, someone will come to unearth and piece our lives. Homo sapiens,  a species of the past. They’ll wonder how we lived. How we communicated. Wondered what we thought and how smart were we.  (Yes, I’m also taking an intro archaeology course right now).

Still, people work their day like clockwork. For what? Why are we doing this exactly? Why are we working, breathing, feeling?

I know I’m a person of skill, not sociability.  Although I have yet to really know what the skill is. I know that that skill is NOT though (it is not: math, epistemology, anything with numbers,  short term memory, anything hands-on with animals and anything related to people). I also know that it sucks to suck at what you thought was your passion (the passion would eventually waned as you realize your ineptitude …yeah, suckiness has that sort of affect on things).

I like to create things. But I’m not exactly sure what for the future. I will always try to write in some capacity.

Sometimes, I wonder what I’m missing from my life. Other times, I’m happy I get to wonder and daydream (and devour the internet, including its cookies…ha!).

PS:I know I’m supposed to be writing an English essay…or at least researching it but apparently I am not doing so at the moment.

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