What will people say about me?
What will my story be?
The interviews with the people in my life, the people I’ve influence, the people I’ve touched.
Will I have made a difference?
“What was she like?”
She takes a long breathe. A deep inhale of knowledge. But through her thin cigarette. “That’s what she was like. She was a hit. A drag of smoke, a nicotine inhale. She was elegance and honesty and harsh beauty. Nothing about her was flawless, and so all together she was perfection.” She takes a swig from her whisky, letting the spice run over her tongue. “Everything about her was mysterious, yet completely on the surface. She was wise, and intelligent and deeply anchored in everything that she believed.”
“And what did she believe in?”
“Oh you know,” she swept a curl off of her forehead, “she believed in change, in the sweet escape of imagination. Above all she believed in the beauty of broken things.”
“Was she herself broken?”
“She was the epitome of terror. Of cracked and broken dreams, that’s why her resolution was so firm. Her skin so tough and her wall so thick.”
“But you say everything was on the surface?”
“Well,” another sip, “she was honest. Clear and true and bright as the full moon. But she had so many secrets. I don’t think anyone knew everything about her. There were rumours and whispers and echoes of time that followed her endlessly, but she walked forward still. Onwards and upwards she would always say.”
“Did she accomplish what she wanted?”
“Yes and no. But anything she missed she’ll catch the next time around.”
What will my story be?
The interviews with the people in my life, the people I’ve influence, the people I’ve touched.
Will I have made a difference?
“What was she like?”
She takes a long breathe. A deep inhale of knowledge. But through her thin cigarette. “That’s what she was like. She was a hit. A drag of smoke, a nicotine inhale. She was elegance and honesty and harsh beauty. Nothing about her was flawless, and so all together she was perfection.” She takes a swig from her whisky, letting the spice run over her tongue. “Everything about her was mysterious, yet completely on the surface. She was wise, and intelligent and deeply anchored in everything that she believed.”
“And what did she believe in?”
“Oh you know,” she swept a curl off of her forehead, “she believed in change, in the sweet escape of imagination. Above all she believed in the beauty of broken things.”
“Was she herself broken?”
“She was the epitome of terror. Of cracked and broken dreams, that’s why her resolution was so firm. Her skin so tough and her wall so thick.”
“But you say everything was on the surface?”
“Well,” another sip, “she was honest. Clear and true and bright as the full moon. But she had so many secrets. I don’t think anyone knew everything about her. There were rumours and whispers and echoes of time that followed her endlessly, but she walked forward still. Onwards and upwards she would always say.”
“Did she accomplish what she wanted?”
“Yes and no. But anything she missed she’ll catch the next time around.”
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