mortality

My blog almost died. Almost. But not yet.

Last night, Steve asked me what happened to my blog and reminded me the writing was something I loved. I hadn’t forgotten, but I had nearly given up.

I confessed to him my fear of mortality. You see, I don’t believe in heaven or hell; I believe when we die, our story ends. Every book has a beginning and an end. And I’ve been thinking about the end lately. I don’t fear death, as I know it is inevitable, but I fear every part of me dying with my body.

I’m afraid of not living on in anyone’s minds. I fear my poems staying locked on yellowing, unread pages, never to mean anything to anyone, and then one day to be thrown in Monday’s trash without hesitation. Without anyone to read them, they are only thoughts, and it doesn’t matter whether or not they were ever written on a page.

To me, failure is being nobody to everyone.

But last night, when I shared my fear with Steve, I realized that very fear should be motivation: to write my memoir, even if I am still young. For me to work harder to get a poem published in an anthology somewhere. For me to spend each day writing something, because maybe someday someone will remember it. But even if not, I won’t regret not trying.

Immortal

Sometimes I think
of
what I would write
if I didn’t plan on
it one day
having an audience.

If one day it was
never
discovered in a
battered notebook
locked away in a
wooden chest
in my attic.

And I think
if
I would write
anything at all.

-February 5, 2008