Dead and Buried

We all leave something behind—not by accident, but for a reason we don’t fully understand. As though some cosmic law silently demands it of us. And we obey, unknowingly, yet unfailingly. We, fragile creatures, live not just to exist, but to leave traces of that existence—marks etched in time, invisible perhaps, but undeniably real. We come into this world incomplete, having left a piece of ourselves elsewhere. When we first take the shape of a foetus in the womb, something essential is set aside. And when we die, we don’t simply vanish; we begin a journey back—to retrieve what was once ours, what we unknowingly surrendered.

But even in that act of return, we leave more behind. Our lives are full of quiet departures. A moment. A glance. A word. Our love lingers. Our memories settle into the corners of rooms. Our shadows remain stretched across places we’ve passed through. Our presence clings to people in subtle, haunting ways. Sometimes we leave behind dreams never fulfilled, words never spoken, and promises that hang in the air, waiting.

Perhaps that is the nature of our existence—to live in fragments, to scatter parts of ourselves across time and space. We are not here to be whole in a single life. We are echoes, returning to find what was lost, only to leave behind something else in the process. And so it continues. We are dead and buried, yes—but not gone. Never truly gone. Something of us always remains.