Ultimately we all die alone, cross that threshold into the unknown alone; and ultimately the people who remember and miss you die, too, and there would be no record of you left on earth.

Even if you're famous, your deeds may be recorded, but who you are - that would be left to subjective accounts, not intimate knowledge. 

So what does it all matter? 

Why fight to leave your mark on the world? Why the need for grandchildren who pretend to be interested in what you have to say; or children to cry at your funeral? All that shallow self-satisfaction.

We die alone, and are eradicated from the face and memory of the world thereafter. I don't need to impress you. I just want the nonsense out of my face. 

I don't know what the point of all this is any more. The little moments seem to be the most precious. It appears that life is ... is it supposed to be like this? Stretches of emptiness and grey with intervals of gold and warmth?