What remains? Our children? Homer touched the flame of the candle with his fingers. The answer wasn’t easy to find for him,Achmed’s words still hurt him. He himself had been damned to be without children, unable for this kindof immortality, so he couldn’t do anything but choose another path to immortatlity. Again he reached for his pen. They can look like us. In their reflection we mirror ourselves in a mysterious way. United withthose we had loved. In their gestures, in their mimics we happily find ourselves or with sorrow. Friends confirm that our sons and daughters are just like us. Maybe that gives us a certainextension of ourselves when we are no more. We ourselves weren’t the first. We have been made from countless copies that have beenbefore us, just another chimera, always half from our fathers and mothers who are again the half oftheir parents. So is there nothing unique in us but are we just an endless mixture of small mosaic parts that never endingly exist in us? Have we been formed out of millions of small parts to a completepicture that has no own worth and has to fall into its parts again? Does it even matter to be happy if we found ourselves in our children, a certain line that hasbeen traveling through our bodies for millions of years? What remains of me?
Dmitry Glukhovsky
humanity, philosophical