Time has a way of dripping away, but there’s a way to capture it somehow.

I’ve been thinking about legacy this week. Kind of weird for a fifteen-year-old to think about such haughty things but I have been since I was five.

I remember being the small-hazy-eyed five-year-old I was, sitting in a car and suddenly wondering why my mind is whirring inside me. And then I panicked a little,- what happens to this whirring mind when I die?

But at that time it was simply a wondering. I marvelled at how everyone walks with a mind inside him or her, and how the universe has a way of assigning these intricate profound mechanical structures into walking and breathing bodies. I mean, I had no idea that “intricate structure” is what science-y people call consciousness.

Now such thoughts hit me less and less often, but still visit me sometimes, and would often escalate into some sort of fear that I don’t consider harmful. I would sometimes still sit in a car, with all the shadows slowly moving across the walls and windows, and think,- What if nobody remembers me, all the stuff inside my head after my head?

I guess the fear is, to some degree, brought by the teenage ambition of wanting to be remembered. But yes, I’ve been thinking about legacy, and I don’t even know if this occurs to everyone, but I do want to be remembered.  It’s starting to sound very angsty, I know.

What is a legacy?

Well, according to Hamilton, it is planting seeds in a garden you never get to see.

For now I’ve decided that my way of planting seeds will be writing. It still scares me that there is always the possibility that perhaps after i die, my thoughts will be a glowing ball of something floating somewhere people can’t see, and I shall have no control over whether people know I existed or not. But writing at least allows me to blindly toss some seeds into that invisible garden. It’s a way for me to not panic at the end of the day, knowing that I wrote some gibberish.

And I stand in front of the mirror, lean in to my own reflection, and I see the water vapour I’m breathing out, leaving droplets on the mirror. For now, that shall serve as some solid proof of my existence.


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