A hundred years ago, just a hundred years

A hundred years ago, just a hundred years, people like us walked this earth, with the same heartbeats, they felt the same sunlight, breathed the same air, with their worries, their small joys and pains, they fell in love and lost love in the same way, they cried over things that might make us laugh today, and laughed at things we would barely notice. They believed everything mattered, and perhaps it did, for a while, but now they're gone, all of them, and no one remembers. Some of their names are kept in books, carved in stone, leaving behind what the world calls a "legacy," but even they—their truths, their hearts—remain a mystery. And here we are, "advanced," our machines are smarter, our screens shine brighter, but we still don't know how to escape the silence that comes after we leave. You and I—we will disappear too, maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but soon, the noise we carry will dissipate into the silence that remains. No one will remember how you laughed at midnight, or how your chest was heavy at 3 a.m. with unspoken thoughts. No one will account for your inner battles, hidden beneath a smile in front of the world. And, wilder still, the same world will keep turning, someone will stand where we stood, thinking they're the center, just as we believe now. Isn't it humbling to realize we're not permanent? That all our noise will eventually become silence. But maybe in that silence, there's something comforting, maybe it's a permission to stop trying to impress a world that will not remember us. To feel what you feel, to live as you wish, to stop chasing things that disappear the moment you hold them. Because if everything fades— then now is the only real thing. So let's live now, let the fear go, for all that remains is here, right here.