Mortality

You're born.
You live.
You die.

That is how life progresses; in very, very simplistic terms. We all know life is never that simple.

Recently I had a friend who's dog was run over by a car & sadly he passed away. Her & her boyfriend loved this dog more than life itself (or so it seems). I feel horrible for them & their devastating loss. Their dogs passing however made me think of my own mortality.

Which is a funny thing to contemplate.

Sure it makes you ask yourself those "bigger" questions such as "In this great big world what mark have I made on it?" or "will I be remembered or forgotten in time?". But really does it matter?

The simple truth is, we all have made marks on this earth, but we will never realize the extent to which we have made them. One kind act to a lonely & depressed stranger could save his life & we would never know it. One flick of a cigarette butt out a car window & we could create the firestorm of the century.

We will all be remembered for a period of time in this world. Our families will love & cherish our memories, or friends will mourn our loss. But in time we are all forgotten. Even names written in the history books. We remember their names. We remember their acts of greatness (the good or the bad). But we never truly remember who they were as people. We don't know their passions. We don't know their quirks. We don't know the moral fibers of their beings. We don't ever remember who they were as a human, only what action made them famous.

The point I'm trying to get at is, we are all on this earth doing monumental, life changing acts. Those little acts we do live on. Ultimately, we are remembered by those who care about us & that my friends is far greater than being in any history book.

Much love,

~Megs

Once the game is over, the king and the pawn go back in the same box.
-Italian Proverb

The fear of death often proves mortal, and sets people on methods to save their Lives, which infallibly destroy them.
-Joseph Addison

Death not merely ends life, it also bestows upon it a silent completeness, snatched from the hazardous flux to which all things human are subject.
-Hannah Arendt