What we leave behind
One day, we will all die. What can we hope for as consolation? Where is our meaning in the face of our inevitable doom? Our lives are fleeting, and, in a way, that makes them ever more beautiful. But our finiteness is heart-wrenching too.
I hope that some piece of me, of my soul, can live on. Whether it’s in a mediocre blog post, a dusty and almost forgotten book, or an obscure scientific paper, I want some future person to read what I’ve written and be hit by the realization that a real person was behind it. A real, human, person poured their soul into those words, a person with hopes and dreams and regrets and flaws, who experienced not just love and happiness, but pain, and jealousy, and bitterness too.
That’s what this blog is really about, I suppose. What it’s always been about. It’s me reaching out into the void, and saying: “I was here. I existed.” I don’t want what I make to be perfect. I want it to be a reflection of the real me. Not some polished version of me that never really existed. Just me.
So, if you’re that future person, digging through the archives of ancient times: Hi! What’s the world like? Have my fears come to life, or was I being silly? You have no idea how much I want to just sit down with you, grab some coffee, and chat.
Is coffee still around?
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