Tragic Sense Of Life

I would like to write of the tragic sense of life, which is a topic I consider a lot. No I do not walk around depressed, just thinking about life makes me wonder what life is about. It really has a sense of sadness, because despite how you live life and what you do, it will all disappear and all you have done will come to nothing. It will all fade. What’s the point?
So we must start to ask ourselves, what in the world could be done that would last? Most have figured that transforming another person's life or "making a difference" is a worthy and noble cause, one that would be remembered at least. Some call their children their hope... their hope of what? I think it is the hope that that child would accomplish the dream the parents could not, perhaps make that difference they wanted to be remembered for. A parents words to his children could be said like this, "Son you will be greater than me, I am proud of you" "Daughter you are so wonderful, don't let anybody say you cannot, because I know you can, I love you". We all go through life knowing there is something or many things we have not done. Something we wish in the depths of our heart that we had done. This next part is a portrayal of life.
Let’s start it now, the beginning of the end. As in old age an old man understands all he ever knew has faded from memory and the tragic sense of life becomes his name, death waits upon him to take a stained mantle full of the memories of the past and the pain sits there in the pool of blood. Still, waiting for him to take a final breath and for him to accept the end, while he the one once full of life knows it was not always this way...
But he knows it all began somewhere. He could imagine cries in a darkness a baby did not understand why he is taken from the home he once knew so well. Soon, opened his eyes to a world of light, blank pages fluttered in a wet world of color, all are ready to be soaked. All are ready to be stained, then, for the first time, burned to ashes, fringed with black ash and glowing embers that sparked the first flame of terror. The happy colors burned, where once only perfect bliss stood beneath a bright sun as a small body took a deep breath of the perfect day. Upon the ridges of a cliff and against the wind, against all the laws, stood a baby to declare, "Someday I will learn to fly and someday I will be like all my dreams".
With this in mind he added weights to his feet and began to see dreams only as pretty paintings never to copied, never to be followed. "I still will be like all my dreams". Hurt unspoken, tears unbidden accepted as sacrifices for a simple joy that can never be forgotten. On a rainy day, he remembers a young love and the kiss of a mother still softly touches the cheek and pierces his heart. The eyes fill with the water of the soul, closing his yes to the mist of a now gray world. Here it comes... "I-I remember... I remember much different days. I remember a time long ago in a place that seems so far away".
What’s the point? When it all is to fade and much as a life is lived to gain no regrets those regrets still come. As tightly as dreams are held, in time those fade even when change was wanted the least nothing is ever the same. In fact, these terrible tragedies are the exact things that one always desires to change but never can. However, rather than to our demise it is through these tragedies that we grow the most. By being burned you will never forget caution around fire and failing in one test is to hopefully succeed the next time that difficulty comes around. When facing the tragic sense of life and knowing that some part is not quite perfect is no reason not attempt to make a mark. It is still a good purpose try to be remembered and a great purpose to try to be remembered for something good.