Death

In the end it’s not going to matter if we’re sinners or saints because we’ll be dead.  Dead as dead can be, like dust from which we are so proclaimed to have come and at which our end we will meet.  If we sin, and sin we do, or if we do good, none of it matters to this world as much as it matters to us what we do.  None of it will reverberate throughout history, nothing will be changed, it will be as if we had never lived. 

A name, yes, a name.  A name might live on in history, it might just squeeze itself into a side note of a history book as the shadow of a person who once lived and died, who did mighty and infamous deeds.  But then, so what?  His time came and went before his eyes and now his flesh and blood are now nothing more than paper and ink.  At least for a few that is their glory.  But for us, the unfortunate masses whose only significance in this world is in our collective prowess, we are neither heroes nor giants.  We are not Davids or Goliaths, Caesars or Gladiators but insects and the only name that the future will know are numbers, just body counts of humanity that came and went.

It’s a sad yet comforting feeling, to know that life will end one way or another.  There is relief in knowing that there is an end to this suffering, to this trudging, to this walking and working and pushing and pulling until your body wears out.  Whether we be peasants or princes, whether we live and die in a thousand years or a thousand days, it really doesn’t matter because it all boils down to that singularity, to that equator of all men.  And if truly we were so lucky that there were an afterlife, there we would all meet and greet, to share our exploits when we were still meat and bones.