What becomes of a life when no one remembers it?
We build legacies, write books, take photos all desperate attempts to be remembered. But memory is fragile. Names fade. Faces blur. Even the stars we name after ourselves will one day collapse.
Kafka requested his works be burned. As if he knew that immortality through art was a myth. Yet here we are, still reading his pain.
Maybe it is not about being remembered. Maybe it is about living in a way that you remember. That you felt deeply. That you wept honestly. That you burned with the fire of a thousand questions, even if no one ever reads the ashes.
To be forgotten is not tragic. To be untrue to yourself that is.