Mortality and our fleeting legacy
I've been tidying up my dad's house and found a bunch of books in a box. Each is an anthology that contain at least one short story by my mother (who was a writer and book reviewer).
She'd marked each book's index to highlight her story. No doubt she was very proud when these were published, especially when she was younger. Yet, here are the books - unseen until now - forgotten, ignored, inconsequential. I'm in the process of cataloguing them now to add to her scanty Wikipedia profile.
I think of all the recordings (unreleased) that I've done and realise that it's only of use to me - while I remain interested. Even if I did have something released it would make little difference.
Funny thing. We think we have something to say but it's all very temporary and, ultimately, it doesn't matter.
I don't mean for this to be heavy, just that I had such a strong sense of this while going through the anthologies. As Yesdog's sig says "It's all about fun people!"
(I'm assuming that he's saying to people that it's all about fun ... not that it's all about "fun people" :)