I haven't posted in far too long. I hope this will be the first in many nights of writing, because, while saying a little a lot doesn't always mean much, it's all I have.
Each year on Halloween I try to consider the dead. The dead who have influenced my life, or who've influenced the world and, by extension, me.
What's it like, I wonder, to be great and facing death? Is it easier, staring down the shadowy path, knowing you've accomplished wonders, that history has already remembered you? Or do you resist, wish for more time to do even more of what you dearly love? Does a genius die wishing for two more lifetimes to empty his potential?
There's a story that, when Beethoven was on his deathbed, lighting struck during the storm outside. When the thunder came, he raised up, shook his fist at the heavens, then fell back and died.
I don't want to die. I don't want anyone I know to die, especially those I care about. For those who have, I try to carry them with me. I try to let them fill me with their lives, as if I was an unfinished painting and they're brushing varicolored pigments into my empty spaces, swirling textures into my maturing life.
That's what I do for them. In my future, I am a compendium of spectres.