Lifetime

Life, in essence, is meaningless. Each day, the same as the next. As we live our lives, what meaningful goal do we achieve? Fame is without meaning, for even

the greats of history will someday be forgotten. Even if we do something that the world sees as a value, such as giving a man a bed to sleep in, that too, is

lost to time. And when we die, which is an inevitable eventuality, how long is it before we too, are forgotten? How many generations will remember who we are?

Fortune, in essence, is also meaningless. You may become as wealthy as a king, but inevitably, you too shall die the same as the poor men on the streets.

Why, then, do we still go on in life, wasting away our precious time that right now, as I am writing this, am doing the same? What goal, what great strides

have I made in my writing of this? None, absolutely none. After I write this, I may be commended upon my work, but how long before this too is buried under

the sands of time? Time is a cruel mistress that is not giving to any one man, never stopping, always ticking away. How much time have I let slip away in

writing such a short literary work? If my life were forfeit at this instance, would I be satisfied with my achievements? Life truly is too short to let

slip from our grasp. You must make history remember you, remember your work, lest it not be so.