I repotted some plants today; the elephant ears, from a strain Ronnie's grandmother kept. Dirt under my fingernails felt good for a change, and the repotting went smoothly, so I was happy with the results. After the job was done, I sat back and looked at my hands for a while, just thinking. It occured to me that blood and tears have fed this earth from time beyond knowing.
We leave no markers, in the ending, no remembrances that stand clear for even a hundred years. Too much is lost. Weathering, outside damage, translations of a sort, none that concern themselves over such trivial things for long.
Footprints set in stone, a memory passed down through the generations, possibly something stored in a museum. We need little. We make less worth making. We haunt our own dreams of success, and fail irreparably to gain perspective as a species.
This thought brings me a great deal of sorrow. And shame.