A Legacy, Please
Legacy is not leaving something for people. It’s leaving something in people. — Peter Strople
I’ve been hyper-aware of mortality for the last five years now. From my late twenties to the present day, more friends and family have passed away than in my previous 27 years of life.
I had heard people say that the older you get the more people you lose, but I was expecting that to be in my fifties, not my twenties.
It wakes you up.
It all got me thinking about if I were to die today would I be happy with what I had achieved? With a question like that, you are running the risk of diving headfirst into an existential crisis but it is an important one.
I often think back to what I have achieved in my life and realise that many things are behind me. That is not to sound depressed about the fact, but just to be realistic.
Many of us go through life day by day doing things but not creating anything that will last beyond the moment.
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Something that struck me was that if I were to be happy with my achievements then there were still some things left to do. It wouldn’t be comfortable to accomplish them all, but it would bring me joy and peace of mind when thinking about my life retrospectively.
Leaving a legacy is something that really speaks to me. It might be based entirely around ego but at the same time, there is something very warm and reassuring about knowing that after you leave this life a part of you will live on.
I have music and videos floating around the ether of the internet. A digital legacy, however, doesn’t quite feel right, and come the second dark age it could all be lost in an instant.
For me, a legacy feels like something that you should be able to keep in a big wooden trunk in the attic. Something that your children can drag out whilst clearing your house. Something they or anyone could hold in their hand and feel closer to the person that you once were.
A book encapsulates that perfectly.
More than a statue, a monument or a painting, a book can speak to the reader in very real words long after the writer is gone. There is no interpretation or question of what you had to say; it is simply there in black and white. An explicit look into the mind of the author that can live on forever.
As I sit at my desk on a Tuesday morning in front of an almost completed book I can feel a sense of accomplishment. Whatever happens, I have written words that can sit on the shelves of libraries, on the bedside tables of home and in shops on the high street. Something that can be picked up and held, absorbed, scrawled on or used to prop up a short table leg; a real legacy either way.
If by some cruel twist of fate I don’t survive until next week to publish my work, it is tagged as orange on my harddrive. Make sure it happens.
Adam Fitch
