When I die, I want the ashes scattered in the wind, overboard on some slow moving ship, that leaves a trace for an hour, maybe two. Our lives are like ships traveling in the night; silently, we move along. If the water is small enough, we can make quite the impression, maybe even block transit and be a name on everyone’s lips for days. But, then it ends, and before long, no one remembers it at all. Maybe with the help of the written word, it lasts a moment more. But, even when it doesn’t fade, the paper still whole and not flaked yellow, disintegrating, even then time eventually wipes the significance and meaning down to a streak wiped with cleanser. A mere memory, a blotch on its way to becoming a clean slate with a few more rubs of the sands of time.
Everyone an Ozymandias, except with a little self-awareness, we realize that we can look upon our works and despair. Every place is dunes, with an occasional oasis or flower, struggling for life, this moment. And in the fullness of time and across the landscape, every spot has its moment, and some have many, but the only constant across them all is that time will wipe it all away, and return it to a clean slate. Nothing remains, except a tell-tale blemish that only an expert can read. Indecipherable by the mass of humanity, as each of us are, every moment. We are even a puzzle to ourselves, most of the time, already dead. In the end, time devours us all, leaving no trace, a true wake of meaning. The last human skull, in a field, a nest for a bird that hasn’t evolved yet.