We are echoes of the long departed. Built on the hopes of our mothers and from the bones of our fathers. If we're careful we'll never leave a mark. The tapestry of ancestry will reflect us present and unharmful. The legacy protected and complete. But what if inside us a rebel happens to live? A troublemaker playing devil may care with the precious family name? If we're brave, perhaps a little bold we just might leave a stain. Just might be remembered. Just might turn out great. And should we not, should we fail, in that we'll have to hope there will be some grace.
Questions about tomorrow: What happens when one day everything is over and all is at an end and the next day we all still have to go to work? What do we do then? Will it only really end when finally money doesn't spend? Or will they find another way to make us slaves? Will we ever walk into Plato's light or are we doomed to stay in Plato's cave? For what purpose do we carry this load? Is this building to something? Or will it all just explode?
Fears about now: The planet is in death throes. We're killing it and the clock to fix the problem has wound down. Journalistic integrity can't survive the new News cycle but it has made it easier for politicians to take advantage, to lie and to somehow become childish shades of what they once were. Violence has become one solution, reticence another and while I agree some people say ****** things freedom of speech is never expanded when it is taken away. Kids shouldn't be afraid of dying in schools. Every generation leaves business unfinished. Every generation marches us closer to the end.
One day no one will be left to remember any of us. The stars will blink out and entropy will advance. Intellectually, this isn't difficult to know, but practically it's barely worth considering. Tomorrow is still coming and we will need enough sleep to make it to the other side. We can worry about the rest at another time.
My mother dreamed me the president of the USA, my father was whip smart always knew what to say. My grandfather came here for the promise of tomorrow. His mother bought passage beg, steal and borrow. I look at my son and am broken hearted. We are just echoes of the long departed.