When we die, people will tramp through our home, strangers, family, friends, loved ones. They will tear up and mourn in our rooms, whisper as if a single voice would deafen the memories.
They will paw through our belongings, the large they will divide amongst themselves, the small, give away, sell, or merely trash. It is those items which were merely staples, a chair is merely a chair no matter how comfortable, that they will argue over, fight for. It is the fragments of our minds, our very souls, however, which will be thrown away with even greater abandon. Each scrap of paper, those old napkins, corners of newsprint or margins of useless documents, those smidgens of blank parchment upon which were penned our thoughts, those that came in the rare moments when we are truly ourselves. No one will take care to read the ramblings of some old coot-be-gone, not if not already bound tightly in an admirable-looking book. And the last remnants, the true bits which should have been past on, will be lost to the winds as ashes and pieces of garbage.
We will be lost, and gone; Forever.
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