You do not immortalize the lost by writing about them. Language buries, but does not resurrect.
Because there is no glory in illness. There is no meaning to it. There is no honor in dying of.
I found myself thinking about President William McKinley, the third American president to be assassinated. He lived for several days after he was shot, and towards the end, his wife started crying and screaming, "I want to go too! I want to go too!" And with his last measure of strength, McKinley turned to her and spoke his last words: "We are all going.
I felt the unfairness of it, the inarguable injustice of loving someone who might have loved you back but can't due to deadness.
There will come a time, when all of us are dead. All of us. There will come a time when there are no human beings remaining to remember that anyone ever existed or that our species ever did anything.
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