Who am I?
In a world of infinite choices,
I can be anymore.
I can create anything fitting within the realms of this world.
I can become whatever I wish,
Anything I can see.
Still, what part of anything means something?
In a world where days are forgotten easily,
And memories naturally grow hazy,
How will I find a fit?
How did the history makers create history,
How did their names resonate in the minds of those around them?
What names were forgotten?
For every history maker, there are a thousand lost souls behind them.
Names are forgotten and reused over and over again.
When is a name finally set to rest?
Eventually, every name will gain something powerful,
So is life a fight to claim that crown?
In the grand scheme of things,
What does it mean to be remembered?
Will my name be forgotten,
Or will I somehow make my mark?
Eventually, all pencil lines fade,
And pen marks are scribbled over.
The names of history makers in today's world may not exist in tomorrow's,
And a name that carries fear may carry hope in a century.
In a world consistently forgetting,
What does it mean to make history?