r.i.p.

you die and you are nothing but another statistic. you never accomplished enough to be remembered and anything you did or wanted to do stayed on your hard drive or your journals or notebooks or in your head or lost on the internet and never discovered.

you never wrote a poem that ensnared or a story that consumed or built something to be marveled. and if you did, no one noticed. you’ll live on in old records no one looks at, files at a hospital that no longer matter.

perhaps you’ve donated your organs or blood and you survive in another being. survive in the most tragic of ways because pieces of you live on, that heart that is beating was yours, but you aren’t there to sometimes forget that it pumps and it doesn’t remember you. medical implants don’t include memories or thoughts or memoirs. perhaps you’ll donate your body to science, be held up for display at the newest museum exhibition. they can count the blood vessels in your face.

maybe you’ll be buried in the ground and eventually become a name stepped on and ignored as mourners pass by. grave robbers are welcome. as they take that ring off that finger, they have unknowingly heeded the echoes of a corpse longing to remember it had once been, for the long forgotten sight of a night sky and the taste of fresh air. perhaps your ashes will become a part of the coral in the ocean. ripples and amoeba and fins. the constant of unexplored blue. perhaps you’ll spread the ashes of your head everywhere you have been and everywhere you wanted to go. take some comfort in the symbolism while you can as you plan it out.

it’s so easy to be lost in a sea of 7 billion people; especially when you aren’t around to be found anymore.