if i cannot be a story told, see in me a waste of years for what is there in life if nothing of you remains when it has ended? there is no immortality, no hope for life beyond; so what must we do, if not seek a legacy? i will not conduct an orchestra that is not my own, nor will i waste my music on the violet violence that another composed i will not skip in hidden rivers, and i will not manicure a garden unexposed to the world — for how must we cultivate a legacy, if not put ourselves on display? you want to be seen, but who will watch a show by an invisible man? the spotlight glazes empty hardwood — the dancer was never you. trees grow from saplings, grow from sprouts and you cannot get to your destination without learning to walk on a worn path. you are guided by the footsteps of those before you — do you know their names? rotting fruits make soil rich for flowers to blossom — will they be hailed as beautiful? just as you are guided by imprints in the sand, life flourishes in the steady arms of the dead see, your legacy has never been your own and if you live to be remembered, the wind will lift your memory like ashes and scatter it to the skies outside of time