24/10/2025
Birth and death, the great, relentless rhythm of the cosmos. We confuse this simple, inevitable cycle with drama. Look how swiftly life expires, a mere flicker against the Earth's eternity. The world does not bend to our presence; its colossal machinery rolls on, wholly unburdened by our singular existence. To grieve our own brief measure is the height of cosmic vanity.
And who will hold our memory? The span of sorrow is compressed; every soul is a sovereign, justly preoccupied with their own narrative. I am no titan of history; my passing, like that of the common man and the great alike, will be met by the same indifferent soil.
This life is a temporary, unearned gift. We cannot control the inevitable end, but we can command the duration. The only true measure of success, the sole philosophy that matters, is to live it fully, on my own terms. To simply be, while being is still possible, that is the final, potent affirmation against the vast silence.
