How We Are Immortal...

I always feel that I will halt my creative process as I pour out more and more of my ideas out from my mind. But my worry is false and I am not sure why I hold to it so strongly. My worry for the art I attempt is probably so prevalent because it is one of the things that I center my life around. It is actually quite astounding the effect that any sort of passion can have on your outlook of the world. Only with the pick of my pen, I can write myself away into years of memories and endless fantasies. This escape from reality is the reason that I write.

          I hate the reality…it is too cruel for anyone to truly enjoy. People such as I are at an even worse disposition. We are the ones who dare to write so much about the one topic that conjures up the deepest fears: death. It is the one thing we cannot avoid…yet, I write about it to a great extent. In some sense, it helps me cope with the idea so that I will be more at ease when it truly does happen. Sadly, that sentiment does not hold any amount of truth. When I once had a dream that I thought was a premonition of my death, no amount of writing could keep me from sobbing until time moved past the day I falsely dreaded. But I still look back to the days before I thought I would die, and I have the slightest feeling that I’m missing something.

          But no matter the time or the way, we all die. The fate of ours is so cruel, for we are conscious of our death for the bulk of our lives. We are nothing more than sand on the beaches, each grain the same as the rest. Although, in some way, we are each unique… particularly by way our penmanship or the tone of our voice; each one different from the next, but not by a large margin of any sort. But we remember how we are different…and even if that memory may die, it will always, at one time, have existed…and that may just be immortality. That could be how we are immortal.

 

Daniel Helle, Second of May, Two Thousand and Eleven.

Reviews

[Coyote Poetry]

I don't know. I had to create a book and think hard of people who were good to me. I wrote a few stories to remind me of what they did for me. The book had 40 people. Most I have forgotten. Once a year I open the book and read the stories. They were my teachers and protectors. To be immortal is not a easy thing to accomplish. I believe when we are gone from this earth. The good deeds and love we gave will be remembered. A excellent chapter. You make me think.
Coyote

[Joiedevivre]

I agree with so much of what you say. Really enjoyed this!

[Fabric Pulse]

I ADORE these [ diary? ] entries of yours. SO spectacular.

[Kayla K]

"We are all going to die.
We don't know when.
We don't know how.
We don't know where.
We could die at any moment.
Yet we lives our lives as if none of that is true."

This quote is one that describes every human being. Except for writers, because they defy that last rule. We are so purely aware of our death. We spend our lives, writing about our death. And then we die. Maybe it's a depressing thought. Yet, I find myself liking it.

This is what I get from this writing, and I thank you for sharing it.