“So you say you like my shirt”*

When I die, I will leave behind a cool collection of t-shirts (including the one I may be wearing at the time, circumstances allowing). No one will appreciate it – certainly not my kids, who will likely be the ones to have to sort through my belongings, though I hope they will have fond memories of some of the shirts. The same holds true for my record collection, which the kids will certainly dispose of without much nostalgia.

On the one hand, the point of owning this shit isn’t to leave behind a legacy that others will be frozen in awe over. The point, of course, is to enjoy it while I can. My shirts are fucking awesome. My record collection even more so. I like the value they add to my dim, scant life. What happens to them after I am gone, I don’t really care.

On the other hand, it is pretty pathetic that what I leave behind is some shirts and plastic discs that no one gives a shit about (as well as the novels I’ve kept and the artwork I’ve collected). No house, no inheritance, no fine china, no heirloom furniture. Nothing substantial for someone to attach memories to (or even leverage somehow). Just the barest remnants of a life spent in solitude, and the undeniable, silent indictment against unrealized earning potential. As well as the stark consequence of squandered emotional potential. This is what is left behind when a heart goes unfulfilled:  nothing. When capacity goes unused. Emptiness endures.    

*Anna Waronker (that dog.)

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