Whispers on the Wind

One day, I realize, I will die. And it might be a good day or bad, depending on how you look at it. I for one, try and think of it as the start of a new adventure into the unknown. But I cannot help but be saddened for the things I will be leaving behind.

You see, I will be leaving behind many friends, people I love and cherish, who I would love to spend more time with - unless any of them leave me first. And I will be leaving behind many things I wanted to achieve but didn't; things I will be working on, and things I will never get around to. There are places I want to see that I will never be able to. But most of all, I am saddened not by what I will never do, but what I have done. For all that I have done, all the memories I have built, shall amount perhaps, to naught.

There are voices on the wind that speak to me... and I shall never hear them again...

There was a day when love touched me, in all its breathless splendor. And I stood abashedly looking at her smiling face as she slept. There was another day when a gentle breeze dried a tear on my cheek as I cried for that same love's loss. When I die, no one will care that I was once in love.

There were times I was fascinated and times I was happy, when the little beams from a projector in the theatre played as God's own fingers upon my mind, showing me worlds far beyond anything I had imagined. When I die, no one will want to know what I thought of those movies.

Then there was the day I spoke with passion. And debated this or that and almost came to blows before I stepped back. When I die no one will care if I was right or wrong.

There was that day I was silly, and I dressed up as a clown on a whim. And made my father take a photograph. And when I lie down to die, no one will care any longer to pick up that photograph and smile.

Then there was the day I was awed by a stunning vista, or a a jolting revelation. And I rushed to you to tell you about it... and you smiled at how excited I was. When I die who will remember my wonder?

I leave behind just enough to make my heart heavy, and I leave behind so little that in another turn of the Sun all sign of me will be lost. Just as nothing now remains of the billions who died before me. All lost but those whispers on the wind...

They call it by many names... the human condition... or the mortal dilemma. The fools intellectualize and seek to hide their grief in cold reason.

Oh but would they not cry too, as I do now, when they hear how the wind whispers their name? And mine.... And it shall go unheard someday. Soon. Too soon...