How will you remember me?

Strangely, for one so introspective, I haven’t really given my written legacy much thought. I guess if discovered by too many folks who know me in real life, this blog would inevitably play a part in how I am currently perceived, or maybe further misunderstood in time to come. Or worse, not given a second glance! Not that I am planning on going anywhere anytime soon.

I think my mum occasionally looks me up here. She once told me that she’d pointed an acquaintance of hers towards this blog, in her typical matter-of-fact style letting me know that I didn’t have to worry as she’d explained fully to said acquaintance that the whole thing is a bit odd, and so not to be too concerned that I’m having a mental breakdown or anything. Bit late for that I thought. It did give me a wee giggle though – once I could see that she didn’t really mean any ill by giving my writing a 3rd party context, albeit a cracker of a backhanded compliment!

I like the idea that one day my children can read this and understand a bit more about the person behind the mother. How life, as I have known it in our time, is a never ending state of ebb and flow silhouetted with brief fleeting moments of happiness and true joy.

It is interesting to appraise how my writing tone has changed over the last eight years; from the satirical to the stoic, the latter coming with an increased bravery to express myself without fear of upsetting others. Speaking from the heart more. Being myself. Just getting older and wiser really and learning to be a bit more humble and non-judgy.

I have a small cache of blogs in my drafts from a few years back that journal feelings that are about as dark and bleak as they get. Oddly at the time, I knew I was struggling to enjoy life, but I didn’t appreciate how those emotions took shape and form in my words. Both the conscious journal style posts and my fiction demonstrated this malaise. I may yet publish these at some point, just to get them on the record. Retrospective publishing feels slightly voyeuristic in a way I can’t really explain. Especially given my mindset at the time. So they will stay locked away until I feel publishing will serve some higher purpose, as interesting as they are to me.

I guess what got me thinking about legacy in general was a close friend who lost a colleague this week where the cause of death is still unexplained as at my date of writing. The colleague had no family and without asking too many questions strikes me as one of these overly private people that unwittingly become unnecessarily enigmatic the more you wonder about them. Anyway, said friend who lost said colleague also has birth family but no legacy of her own at present and I can tell that the sad news has shaken her on many levels, legacy being one.

It got me thinking how my outlook might be different if I had no one to leave my shit to. What would happen to it? Would it all have just been pointless if nothing were to live on in others? Or is all this pointless anyway, which is what makes journaling so cathartic? I don’t think there are answers and I don’t mean to offend anyone in pondering about it out loud. Just makes me realise how many things I have that probably shouldn’t be taken as much for granted.