The cynics say it's your accomplishments. It's your bank account and your property. It's how many times you've dodged being fucked over. That's your life. That's what you've done.
The romantics say it's the times you've been breathless and it's those nights spent on rooftops with the only person who's ever been able to make your heart race. Even if it didn't last, it's the memories.
That's your life. That's what you've got to show for it.
The politicians tell you that it's about what you've done for others and the things you'll leave behind. The educators tell you that it's what you pass on to the generation beneath you and how you handle the power that's going to be handed slowly down through out your life. The addicts will tell you that it's the days you've woken up and not touched a thing and still managed to crack a smile. A fourth grade child will tell you that it's the feeling of a cookie before dinner, sitting on the kitchen counter and having your hair ruffled by your parent rather than your palm smacked away.
That's your life.
That's what you've done.
That's what's going to be there in your place when you're not.
Because one day you won't be.
And six billion other people will.
The truth is that none of them are ever going to really know you,
none of them will ever really carry on that torch you hold for the love of your life,
that disappointment that follows you from the first test you ever failed,
the success that followed the business you started.
Maybe you'll write history, and they'll know your name. They'll know your birth date, the day you died and maybe even what you wanted to be when you were ten. They'll recite your interviews, word for word based on idolizing you. But will they know you?
Will they know that you didn't mind being too traditional or plain in the fact that you preferred roses above all flowers? Will they know that your favorite elementary school memories included a pajama day and the first time you colored in the lines? Will they know that the first snow of the year makes you cry and that you wanted to be proposed to in the rain? Will they know that the only way that you can throw a basketball is if it's done like that of a child, and that you're really good at it, just really embarrassed by it? Will they know that you were selfish; that you were jealous? Will they know that you watched Nickolodean through age sixteen and that occasionally the thought of old television episodes from your childhood could bring a knot to your stomach? Will they know that you loved to read simply because it beat talking; that as loud as you were and as outgoing as you were, you always relished the time that you could be the shy one? Will they know that you fell in love with someone years older than yourself, or that it happened more than once? That those boys weren't turned away due to you being a bitch, but merely because they didn't suit your taste?
Will they know any of that about me?
The answer is likely no.
The answer will likely always be no.
But maybe one person in your whole life; in my whole life, will know that.
And maybe that's all I'll ever have.
But that's my life.
It's what I've done.
It's what I've got to take with me when I'm not here anymore.
It's mine, and no one elses.
Why does that scare so many people?
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