I thought I would revisit this text I wrote about sixteen years ago. I only made a few corrections.

Without A Trace

 It seems strange that we don’t usually think about our own disappearance. 

I wonder why? Knowing that it is our only certainty in life. 

I have the feeling that it should be as meaningless as possible. I mean, when the time comes, I would like every question to be answered, everything to be said. I don’t want any interrogation remaining, any lingering doubts. Since matter – physically speaking – can’t be destroyed, I guess my second choice would be to have my hashes scattered to the wind. No place to remember or to grieve over. No monument to draw the sorrow and the fading memories of those I have left behind. Just the souvenir of the dust flying away… 

In essence, our lives do not offer much meaning. The “sound and the fury” seems more deafening to me as the years go by and the options are scarce. We can either be a creator (or maybe a destructor assuming there is, in fact, a difference) or we can choose to pass on the burden of the quest for meaning to our own children. That’s about all there is I reckon. 

I suspect that some people might make the choice of parenthood partly to remove the weight of this great responsibility off their own shoulders. No matter what happens after the first child is born, something will be left. The line won’t be broken and the quest will continue. 

For those – and me among them – without any well-defined and well-developed talent, it never seems to be a fair choice. In fact, it never seems to be a choice at all. In this perspective, I would almost understand why some choose the destruction of value, the destruction of lives, as a way of defining their passage on earth. 

No doubt; The idea of leaving without a trace is for most people unbearable. 

In essence I believe the few options come down to one single tiny and incredibly powerful necessity; to change our environment. To leave something that says; “From now on and only because of me, the world is different”. 

The impossibility of ever being sure of the potential influence of what will be left is the fuel that keeps the creator running. This is also why “doubt” is the unconditional and most faithful companion of the artist during his life. In the rare instances where “certitude” settles in, especially in the old age, I do believe that “suicide” can be a valid recourse. It should not be seen as a very powerful life statement really. It might simply signify that everything had been said and that death was running late. 

I can’t imagine something more offensive, more vulgar and arrogant than the current trend purporting that one is “killed by suicide”. Imagine, taking the last act of a mortal man and attempting to change its meaning while the victim can’t defend himself or even argue his own case. You must be proud.