Amused

I remain fascinated with old yearbooks tucked away, forgotten on bookshelves in almost every home. Every yearbook filled with the dead, staring out of the page at you like frozen caricatures of their once youthful self. As the years pass, more and more of the faces fall. How often does the last face know they are the last? If they did, would they care? Would the scribblings from days long forgotten provide them with comfort or sorrow?

So many people spend their lives making as much noise as they can in the dark nothingness of this world, as if trying to swim against an obvious and overwhelming current. Desperately clinging to a vain hope that their life will be remembered, allowing them to somehow cheat the inevitable death that constantly looms, failing to realize that memories and pictures can capture no more than a feeble distortion of identity through the narrow lens of common experience.

I wish more than anything for my life to pass like an whisper amongst the clamor. Like an unremarkable whisp of smoke rising from a raging forest fire. A broken shell washed on the beach, passed over again and again, and cast into the sea upon further examination.

We obediently march to the death of all.