Three months ago I recently finished the last chapter of my life. It wasn’t great nor was it bad. It simply existed in human form, in some way, and in some fashion. Some people might see this as dark. Others might see it as written garbage. I tend to be wordy and weird in the same sentence and breath. I say deal with it. I only wrote what was on my mind at the time. There is a lot of nonsense and little greatness involved here.
No one I can name right now with conviction told me the great ones never die. When I was old enough and strong enough to open my mouth with commitment and use my tongue, I corrected all of them and anyone who was listening with a name I don’t remember or ever cared to remember. I shouted as far as my lungs would carry my message: “there is no great one that dies and only the useless ones really live.” This turned some heads in my direction but not enough. I didn’t care because there I knew there is no greatness, not even in one’s mind.
You can’t quantity it. You can't even qualify it. Everyone who dies is buried. A handful of people remembering the one living person places a flower on the casket. Those space conscious people don’t place flowers anywhere because all that remains is ashes. No more eyes, ears, arms, legs, even the beating heart is gone. The person has completely vanished. Nothing matters to the survivors of the dead except the crumbling of serious matters. The dead remain dead. The alive remains alive. There are similarities between the two.