I walk into the kitchen.
My wife says, “who’s this Charlie Kirk guy?”
That guy who makes those revolting YouTube videos?
The news of his demise is all over the internet.
The machine, via its human parts, is transmitting the message that what happened is concerning (while what has been happening in Gaza is apparently none of our concern).
I struggle to understand why he is being lauded as a martyr—I thought him an influencer rather than influential person.
What you do while you're still here determines what's left behind.
Only problem is you never live to see that day, which is all the more reason to understand that your actions have consequences.
I'm scared to die but I'm more afraid of how quickly I should be forgotten if that were to happen.
So I pretend as if I have a memorable life, since I have yet to accomplish anything important enough to be remembered by.
Memories are all we really have.
All I have.
All that is real.
Nothing is more real to me than the ones I have of my grandfather, and my dogs.
They left behind important things, things that have endured.
Part of why I write is to let you know this, the other part is that I feel compelled to leave something behind as well.
Something real.
Footprints that won't wash away.
I’m having a hard time reminding myself of this.
I know it could all end today, but I keep waiting for tomorrow.
