Shall I be remembered when I have left this world?

 

What is the meaning of life?

It is a question that many have pondered about over the centuries, with a vast number of responses being theorised.

Of course, many would say that the answer is unbelievably simple: the meaning of life is to acquire an economically proficient occupation; to become a professionally empowered and respectable individual; to fall in love and one day have a cherished family. The biggest thing to keep in mind though, would be to always follow your mind; your heart; your gut; and to always, and this is the most important part – have fun. For what is life if it is dull, boring and predictable?

I on the other hand would additionally speculate that we wish to be remembered, right?

This is something that I have thought about – not often mind you, but it has on occasion crossed my mind. Bearing in mind this is not exactly the most positive post ever (in fact some may go so far as to call some of the connotations downright negative), so please bear with me. If you have objections, by all means – make them known at the conclusion of this piece…

Back to what I was writing…before we depart this Earth, we would like to have achieved something that someone would remember us by.

Militarian leaders of the past, the likes of Napoleon Bonaparte and Alexander the Great are especially known for their orchestration of the spilling of blood and frequent warfare; for their fantastical wins and unfathomable losses; the way they presided over their dynasty; and how they treated their municipals; their supporters; and their people.

I am not speculating that everyone wishes to go down in history with such a spectacular résumé under their belt, but I do believe that we wish to be able to look back and think ‘I will be remembered for this, that and the other.’

My question is, are we really ever remembered?

For instance, say when you leave this Earth you have yourself:
-a loving partner
-a fantastic child
-loving parents
-amazing friends
-a gorgeous dog
-a professional occupation

Will you be remembered?

Below is a purely hypothetical scenario of what could happen…

Your loving partner will weep for you, and will eventually; perhaps a year later, or maybe three, find a new lover and will happily marry them.
Your child will grow up calling another person ‘mummy’ or ‘daddy’.
Your parents will cry over you, for parents should never be forced to outlive their children, and then they too will pass away, and no longer will they grieve.
Your friends will drink to your memory, and soon afterwards find another friend to replace you with.
Your dog, being man’s best friend, will happily acknowledge the love and support of any new owner who comes into their life and will eventually forget you ever existed.
Your boss will, perhaps a week later, have already filled your position with another able bodied worker who will soon succeed you and go on to perhaps run the company.

What legend do we leave behind when there is always something, always someone that can so easily replace us? In love; in friendship; in professionalism; we are, each of us – replaceable. Really makes you consider the value of a human life.

Many people would say they would give anything to see their loved one again. But what would they give to feel happiness again?  How can we be remembered when the whole idea of living is to simply move on with your life when something horrific happens, such as losing someone who meant so much to you?

Besides, today, history is learnt and taught by so few people. Very few people have any respect for the past, and as the years go on, fewer people will care. There will come a time when people will simply not even remember about the ancient Egyptians; the ancient Greeks; the French Revolution, or the Russian Revolution; and if these significant moments in history are not remembered; how do you honestly think that you will ever be remembered for what you accomplished?

And in the end, much like the sands of time, we will be erased from the history of the world, and we will become nothing more than a whisper in the gathering dark, and soon after, we will be but silence in the background of time.

By this time, nobody will even remember us; and nobody will even care to.

 

Thoughts and suggestions are always welcome.

Have a great day!

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It was an Embarrassing Day!

 

This piece contains some rather strong coarse language.

Okay, let me paint u a picture – I’m 4 years old. It’s a weekday, and I am already running late for kindergarten, and I suddenly have this enormous urge to relieve my bladder. Now, bearing in mind at this point I was not exactly what you could call ‘skilled’ at aiming my projectile weapon. Quite often my payload would go everywhere but where I wanted.

I remember once when I was 7, it was a very dark night and I decided not to turn on the lights as to not wake up my parents, cuz their bedroom was next to the bathroom. I was busting, and I managed to make it to the bathroom in time – to watch my penis go absolutely crazy. I took hold of Naughty Junior, and took aim, kind of, and watched the havoc in what appeared to be slow motion – it went everywhere. On the walls. On the ceiling. On the floor. On the toilet rolls (that is what they all for, right, so that wasn’t so bad, right?). On the towels. On the mirror. Yes, it was a nightmare. In the end – not one drop managed to make it into the bowel – some of it I will admit hit the seat, but, that still counts as a ‘miss’. Like basketball – you don’t get points for hitting the rim. Cleaning it up was the worst part – at one point I miscalculated the extent of the damage and slipped on my ex-bodily liquid and skidded across the tiles and happened to slam into the cabinet. I was headed for the shower but managed to grab hold of the door and did an amazing 180 degree spin away from it – I was really impressed. Safe to say my parents awoke – and they were less than pleased.

Anyway, back to when I was 4 – judging by my brilliant history of missing every time I tried to relive my bladder, which I apparently continued for some years to come, I decided to sit down. Yes – which was as it later seemed, not the greatest of plans. So, there I am, relieving myself, when I slip – no, not off the toilet, that would have been not embarrassing at all. I slip into it. Apparently, when I sat down my arse cheeks were teetering on the edges of the inner most portion of the seat, and I just so happened to lose my balance.

So, here’s the picture; I am officially half way in. My arse is about two inches away from needing a snorkel. My feet are dangling just above the floor and I am helpless to move. So – I call for my mother, who at the time was my heroine. In she comes – and laughs at me. She doesn’t cry, which is what I was doing mind you. She doesn’t scream or yell ‘golly gosh!’. No, she nearly pisses her pants as she watches me dangle from where I am like a fish before eventually coming to my rescue – or not. She takes hold of my arms and begins to drag me out – she drags. She pulls. She pushes. She yells. She growls. She groans. She pants. She pulls. She prods. (This is beginning to sound like a regular porno). She yanks with all her might – but I won’t budge. Daddy was out at work at the time. He left every morning at five to help control Melbourne’s power. So, it was just me and mummy – who could not save me. She says she might need to get the neighbor to help yank me from the bowels of hell. Shit no! At least that is what I would have said back then if I had known such a term existed, cuz bearing in mind at the time I was innocent and sweet. It was the following year, my first day of primary school actually that I leant the words ‘fuck’ and ‘cunt’. Yes, my parents were proud they had sent their son for a higher education. NOT! Anyways, the mere mention of the neighbor’s assistance causes my inner self to empower my body to wrench myself free. I push and my mother pulls, and eventually I am saved!

That however ain’t the most embarrassing part. The local newspaper decided to make a story out of this, titled ‘toilet tries to eat stupid little prick and an arsehole’. (This part is meant to be a joke. I know, my friends didn’t laugh at this either!)

FYI – I don’t miss anymore!

Naughty Nefarious, signing off