Whenever I hear
John Keats'
epitaph, a sick, little tremor ripples through my belly. Consider what it would (and maybe will) feel like to know that not only are you going to
die, but your entire
life--all of your
suffering,
wonder,
love, and
hate--was for
naught? You won't be remembered, your
life won't be thought of, you're
name was writ in
water.
There will be nobody there to shed a tear, and
you might as well have never been.
John Keats was wrong, for he was
brilliant--his
poetry is a thing of
wonder, and I and others will
remember his
name until
death. But what of you? What of me? What will be when we no longer are?