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Apr. 25th, 2006 01:51 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
stoopbeckWell, after a perfectly lovely day, I turned almost maudlin. *sigh*
Do you ever look back on a time in your life and wonder what you could have been thinking? Why did I say this, why did I do that, why did I worry about so many piffling little things that, a hundred years from now, will mean nothing?
A hundred years from now, who will remember me? Who's going to look at a picture of me as I look today and think, "I never knew she was that young," or read a book with my name in the flyleaf and wonder why I chose to underline certain passages, or dogear certain pages?
Will people tell their children stories about me? Will anyone still read what I've written?
Chances are, two, three hundred, a thousand years from now what few ripples I may have caused will have long since equalled out. A couple more thousands and the memory of the places and civilization in which I lived will be memories. A couple more and they will be myths, stories to tell children at night when they refuse to sleep. Or to terrify them into compliance. Either way, we'll be gone, and all that we hold important with us.
So why do people keep bothering? We've each got, on average, about eighty years to run around and pretend we know things and to try to find our niche in life, some thing to make us happy, and then we die. What's the point? Why bother? And yet we do. It's either incredibly uplifting or incredibly sad and I'm sure it'll take me years to decide, and right now I'm too tired to do so, so I will go to sleep and try to dream of nothing.
Do you ever look back on a time in your life and wonder what you could have been thinking? Why did I say this, why did I do that, why did I worry about so many piffling little things that, a hundred years from now, will mean nothing?
A hundred years from now, who will remember me? Who's going to look at a picture of me as I look today and think, "I never knew she was that young," or read a book with my name in the flyleaf and wonder why I chose to underline certain passages, or dogear certain pages?
Will people tell their children stories about me? Will anyone still read what I've written?
Chances are, two, three hundred, a thousand years from now what few ripples I may have caused will have long since equalled out. A couple more thousands and the memory of the places and civilization in which I lived will be memories. A couple more and they will be myths, stories to tell children at night when they refuse to sleep. Or to terrify them into compliance. Either way, we'll be gone, and all that we hold important with us.
So why do people keep bothering? We've each got, on average, about eighty years to run around and pretend we know things and to try to find our niche in life, some thing to make us happy, and then we die. What's the point? Why bother? And yet we do. It's either incredibly uplifting or incredibly sad and I'm sure it'll take me years to decide, and right now I'm too tired to do so, so I will go to sleep and try to dream of nothing.
