The meaning of it all
Every person on Earth should experience clinical depression. Every person should have, at least, a fleeting glimpse of reality. Depression only makes obvious the perfect pointlessness of existence. A pointlessness justified by the immediacy of desperate want and process; “you have to because we do.” If, for instance, you are five minutes, of relative time, early you're commended and if you're five, relative, minutes late you're reprimanded; little is accomplished in those five minutes, but your presence is a measure of obedience. They care that you're where you should be; but they do not really care if you live. In truth, with a very few exceptions, nobody cares that you exist. A depressed person knows they are replaceable, non-valuable, essentially barely real at all.
In a park near a school, and a shopping mall, sits a bench covered in bird shit. Inscribed in the center of the backrest, also covered in white splatters and flecks of shit, is a name and a date. The aforementioned would say: "In honor of Emily Anne McLeash"; except, only the last three letters remain shit free, remnants of seed and insect almost visible in the curdled whiteness. Nobody sits on the seat and few read the inscription: "ash"; ironic because that is what every person on Earth is.
Every person, on a molecular level, is in fact made of the remnants of burnt out stars; we are the dim weakened leftovers of the objects which bring light and warmth to our cold harsh universe, we are the sentient byproduct of brilliance long faded, we are the charred remains of fires that raged for millennia; we are imperfect and broken-down, all the way down to the atomic level.
All of time may occur in a moment. It is possible that I see you as you see me and the end sees the beginning. Time may not run like a river; maybe it's a balloon full of water. Maybe, just maybe, time is an illusion, merely the side effect of space or other forces yet unknown, or known but yet to be quantified.
Alana was born after Jesus and before anyone topping any current chart of musical popularity. She spoke clearly and plainly but very few people listened, and even fewer heard. When Alana died of a type of cancer very rarely blamed on the all powerful deity in the sky, whose interventionism apparently only extends to the lucky upper classes, to aid in their athletic endeavors or their grandest public successes, and whom isn't able to assist the multitudes of children who die excruciating and unnecessary deaths, she'd never bared the totality of her thoughts and feelings to any single person; no one person truly knew her, though those that knew a bit mourned that sliver and mixed it with their facile attributions and invented extensions; in essence they all missed an avatar, essentially nothing and nobody.
As Voyager II exited the solar system and turned its lens back to Earth it took a picture of Alana, suspended in a sunbeam, with dust billowing all around, free-falling forever through the inky black abyss. The heaving molten rock she rode both pressed her towards death and held her in stasis. (In death she still rides it, although she isn't she anymore). Everything that was "she" continues to move with the same unrelenting velocity, nothing has changed except her ability to cognate and her ability to communicate. Though in life her consciousness was inextricably linked to her physicality, in death the thoughts she expressed continue to infect other consciousness's. We are all physics in action; we are all along for the ride.
And yet the product of cognition, which is thought expressed, creates a ripple effect; time may reduce it but never eradicate it, at least as long as the chain of human lives continues, the infectious and undeniable allure of ideas rides alongside, within.