A Buckshot

Its impossible to tell the strength of the accusation life presents you with. That you should be born into a world, filled already with wild talent, flagrant as the luminosity of the moon, and still feel compelled, lest you face Horace Mann some unquestionable day ashamed to have been alive, to perform, to give uncontrollably, intractably, agapically, until you are used up. The deal you make with life is that you will kill yourself under the weight of your living as soon as you can and skill allows… that or you will live until the last person utters your name and then you will be gone forever, like a shadow in a hospital, or blood on tile, you will be lost in the gutters of history, in those places between ancestry.com and those who are currently doing something; you will be gone and there will be no memory, because you did nothing, and wanted nothing, are nothing, and became nothing. But you were born. And life saw you span over decades. But you never saw it.