I Hope I am Forgotten When I Die

I leave no legacy.

I hope I am forgotten, when I die.

In that way my life this time around would have been my own. My last true ownership.

My hold on myself. My final control of my destiny.

No tombstone as marker and no location to find my carbon remains.

And no pot of ashes to dust around.

No legacy to prove I was ever here.

No proof necessary.

What’s the proof for?

For relatives to point and make up stories to claim an identity that is not of their making?

They are cannibals to eat up my life and shit it out by way of their own digestive systems.

My body can be eaten by wolves for all I care.

If there is even a beast for that purpose after I have shed this carbon based meat suit.

I don’t know that there will be a body left and it doesn’t matter to me.

I care about what happens now. I can step on that high horse and ride.

People say that family history is important. It is not.

That it tells you who you are. It does not.

It tells you nothing about yourself.

Family history makes an excuse for not taking hold of your own life.

In 1775 my grandfather opened and taught a classical school for boys. So, what? It doesn’t mean a thing to me unless I opened and taught in a classical school for boys. It’s just an interesting story.

So, I don’t owe my experiences to you.

I don’t have to explain or justify myself to anyone.

Freedom.

Perhaps the judgments from other people are part of the experiences of life.

Part of the ride.

So, I shut out nothing.

I welcome it all.

And I perish as though I never was.