The Misfortunes of Being Mere Mortal

Writing myself into eternity

Writing in public is writing myself into eternity. Like building a time capsule but never burying it - just leaving it in the open for everyone to see. 

When I started writing publicly, I did not seek to preserve my thoughts from the erosion of time like a decades-old shoe box under the ground. I thought about writing as excavating a specific-point-in-time-observation. I thought I would wind up with a library of disparate topics. Disconnected detours.

I thought wrong. What I am building is an astronomical map of my existence.   

I am writing myself inside out. Mystical meanderings. Soulful soliloquies. Mindful missives. Turned to ink. Ink exchanged for the fabric of my identity. Ink that keeps alive what would otherwise burn back to stardust. Twinkly but transient.

I have been musing about why eternalization matters to me. 

The logical answer is the eternal aspect of time. But that isn’t it. It isn’t how long my writing lives, but what it is capable of once I am no longer here. 

I think the answer to this question is the same as the answer to the existential question that plagues us: “How do you want to be remembered?”. 

I want to be remembered as love. Not just that I loved but that I was love. At the top of the mountain, over the finish line, or at the pearly gates, I want to be remembered as someone who lived to nurture the growth of another. And not only others, but the earth that gravity drew me into. What my eyes and fingertips touch, I wish to love. Strangers. Complainers. Creators. Neighbors. And gamers. Plants. Ants. Cats. Bats. Just maybe not gnats.  

When I hit publish on my writing, I want my reader to feel seen - seen in a way that lingers like the smell of dogwoods in the spring air. I want my reader to feel warmth from cozying up with my thoughts. I want my reader to feel tightly embraced, like each of my words is a tiny hug. I write to give my reader a place of belonging. 

I write to make my reader feel loved. 

Writing is my love language. And like a book, it is two-sided.  

While I write to give, I also write to be read. I wish for my writing to be a safe house as much as I wish for someone to spend quality time within it. Touching the intricacies of my four walls. I crave for my writing to have company, to be clung to and caressed. When someone spends their finite time with my writing, I experience a deeper kind of gratitude. A gratitude that transcends time and space. 

That is the misfortune of being mere mortal. I can’t love after death, but my writing can. My writing can immortalize the parts of me I wish to remain alive. 

So there it is, the answers to the question, “What impact do you want to leave on the world?” and “Why do you write?” are the same. The answer is love. And it is my belief that the timelessness of writing makes this possible. When my mind and body and soul no longer roam this earth, only my written words can carry their weight. 

I hope that one day, I am a weathered book with crispy-cornered pages and black text worn grey by zigzagging eyes. Phantom hands grasping me tightly. Warm on the inside. A safe house. A place to be loved. 

As life slowly writes me out of existence, my writing will write my love back into it.

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This essay is a note to my readers. You are playing an irreplaceable role in my journey as a writer. Thank you for being here. And big hugs to

Alex Michael

,

Tommy Dixon

,

Chris Coffman

,

The Human Fire

, and everyone else from Write of Passage for their endless encouragement and kindness.

Haley