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Is it truly death they fear, or the unraveling of their illusory self-importance,
as they tread through existence, erecting fragile monoliths of their ephemeral legacy,
believing their names will resonate through ages, as if permanence were a divine gift,
a privilege born not of vanity, but of an illusion of eternity that never ends,
watching as each moment turns into thin stone, losing its luster.
Yet history erodes with precision, turning emperors into mere footnotes,
scholars become misattributed quotes, lost in the wind of forgetting that erases their mark,
and if the architects of civilizations succumb to oblivion, mere ephemeral mortals, why do they think they are spared?
Why do they believe the thread of the narrative depends on their presence, that without them, time would stop,
that the world would unravel in the absence of a fleeting presence, dissolving like a dream?
Do they fear death or the harsh realization that they were never essential,
that their existence was just a faint echo in a vast and indifferent universe,
where stars extinguish and are reborn without caring for our fragile stories,
in the stream of consciousness, their monoliths of vanity crumble into absolute silence,
as if their entire significance were just a shadow in an endless dance.
A shadow among thousands of shadows in the dance of time, which swallows everything without blinking,
and thus, perhaps the true fear is not in the last breath, but in the silence that follows,
in the quiet that no longer whispers their names, in the eternity that continues without noticing them,
only with the wind erasing footprints on the merciless and unforgiving sands of time,
where only the echoes of unfulfilled dreams remain to haunt the sky with lost memories.

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