Living Up To Our Epitaphs
Crossposted from Kapwa Collective – wrote this for my friends before.
I regularly think about my epitaph. Epitaphs come as a consequence of death; I do not think very much about death, and should I die, I would much rather take space on the ground as a tree and not a tomb replacing one─ but whenever I listen to songs of rock bands in the ’80s or browse passages of books, I could not help but always conjure different combinations of words that I could possibly be remembered by. Phrases such as, “Tis the lucky lucky penny penny penny, buys the pearly to their souls” **from the Cocteau Twins song, “Throw confetti when they claim the fruits of those passions,” as written **in the book Quiet by Susan Cain, or “Who in the world am I? Ah, that's the great puzzle” as found in Lewis Carroll’s famous work Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. These are beautiful sets of words that are possibly all contenders for my imminent epitaph.
I believe that words in commemoration of a human being, whether or not they were written by the person for which they are intended, must be chosen carefully; they must properly reflect or honor the one lying beneath them─ or they can simply be chosen for fun. Choosing an epitaph could demand pressure much like the gravity one would feel when choosing a yearbook quote or a tattoo. The dignity and permanence at stake become apparent, so it becomes a tedious or challenging task for those who attempt it. It leads me to think─ if I were to be remembered and honored by the words of which I am under─ would I not choose incredible examples to base my standards upon? Writer Charles Bukowski’s epitaph infamously proclaims “Don’t try,” actress Bette Davis’s says “She did it the hard way,” and James and Lily Potter's says “The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death.” Quite intense, I would say, and high standards to live up to, no pun intended.
There must be more to the word “epitaph” than its denotation. While etymologically, the word comes from the Greek word epitaphion, combining epi, meaning “upon” and taphos, meaning **“tomb,” there is a more figurative meaning to the word as so succinctly described by the Oxford dictionary: an epitaph is also “something by which a person, time, or event will be remembered.” I cannot help but think, if I wanted to be remembered, what would people remember me by? My Harry Potter stock knowledge? The effort I put into understanding all the pop culture references in Gilmore Girls? My academic achievements? The good habits I’ve built? On a more sullen note─ will I even be remembered at all, or will I face the “The Final Death” like some of those characters in the movie Coco ─ disappearing in the Land of the Dead because I was completely forgotten?
Thinking about epitaphs brings about so many existential questions that make me more aware of the space that I take up in this universe, the way I spend my time, and how I affect those around me not just for the present moment but for the centuries to come. A wise woman named Beyoncé once said “I wanna leave my footprints on the sands of time.” Perhaps the concept she alluded to is more important than being remembered─ simply making an impact. I cannot help but think that what is more important with both the literal and figurative meaning of epitaphs is not being remembered by them in death, but by living up to them in life, as cheesy as that sounds. That being said, I’ve come to think that what we participate in on a daily basis will all contribute to our epitaphs, both literally and figuratively─ and while they may not seem considerable in the grand scheme of things, may collectively make waves infinitely.
Still, as I make sense of it all, my mind continues to ponder upon the words that would be inscribed on my memory. Should I list down all possibilities that enter my brain in the journal beneath my pillow? It may be considered too early for me to think of my own epitaph. Perhaps I should just leave the task to those who would survive me; I suppose they would write it affectionately─ but what if I do not have anyone to survive me, or if I do, how can I expect them to write it with love?
Ultimately, will any of this matter at all? The inevitability of oblivion may surpass all remembrance, and all thoughts regarding epitaphs may very well amount to nothing. However, I will choose to ignore that possibility ─as advised by Hazel Grace in John Green’s The Fault In Our Stars─ because there is beauty in simply trying─ trying to live up to our epitaphs.
