Only Time Can Tell What We Will Become

It’s so insignificant. Like writing something you know no one will ever bother to read.

It’s so pointless. Like building a house that no one will ever live in.

It’s so hopeless. Like playing music for a deaf man.

It’s so futile. Like baking a pie, only to be left out by the window.

It’s so aimless, living. No one wants to read my story. Or live in the world I’ve built. No one wants to listen to my song, or taste my experiences. It’s worthless, this life. We all get washed under the carpet, in the end.

Maybe one day, someone will pick up our lost and forgotten stories, but what will they do?

Toss us into a chest, laden with locks and old dust. Our stories, songs, worlds, thoughts, forgotten with the mark of time.

People try so hard. Like they might receive a medal, if their song is longer than the others. If theirs is more difficult to play. But they won’t; all stories can be deciphered. All doors can be knocked down. All pages, ripped apart.

We aren’t anything but the stories we leave behind. But even those cannot outlast the power time holds over us all.

{I’m so optimistic, aren’t I?}

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