Just remanants. . .

Pieces of a dream deferred, life long belongings, just sitting on the side furled.

Rolex, money clip, Armani suit, Credit cards, what does it mean if you haven’t meant anything to anyone that matters most to you.

I can’t call it. Sometimes I feel like dying. Not because I am depressed. Sometimes I feel like dying just because I’ve been in this life for awhile now. And I’ve yet to figure out what I’m doing here. I know, I know. Time and patience will tell the tale. But I must engulf the treaties that rule my life; the treaties that guide my heart; the treaties that control my thoughts so that I may become through the most high, a servant.

Lord only knows that the true purpose of living is to prepare for an honoree death. To stand for something and mean something to someone other than the woman who gave birth to you, could amount to more than just a stack of memories. Impact. The true metric of existence. How impactful have I been to those I have come into contact with?

Or perhaps, I can remain, just remnants. Just fragments of my own imagination. To believe that I have cultivated a being that is merely here to breathe air and say I have lived nearly 11,000 days with no more to show for it than age lines and gained weight.

Could the sustenance used to maintain my life been better served to someone who could have used it and been more. . .done more? Perhaps. But like most remnants, that fact will lie by the wayside, destined to never mean anything to anyone.