Everyone has a story about a celebrity.
How they met one in a bus stop and he ignored them because he was on the phone, or how they nearly stepped on their toe coming out of a pub one time then discovered they were wearing the same shoes. Some are funny, some sad and some insignificant to everyone but the person telling it. But we all have stories. Snippets of time kept to tell and retell round the camp-fire after that they’re gone.
All of our tales are truths and all of our truths are what make us immortal.
We cannot all be Bowie or Rickman or Elvis, but we can all leave a mark. Some small impression on the people around us, that will last long after we have gone. Ultimately what we are all seeking is immortality; to be remembered and thus know that our lives counted in some way, to know that we mattered. Our legacies may not be legendary stories about Studio 57, but so long as there are five or six people still telling the Great Christmas Pudding Saga of 2005 or laughing about the time we forgot to pick up Grandma from the train station and she ended up in the pub with all the bikers then it has all been worthwhile.
Too easy to compromise, to make excuses and to drift away from our dreams. Simpler to go along and forget who we wanted to be. Compromises are worthless. We have one life and one chance to live it well. We are more fragile than our stories, weaker than the memories of those who love us and we will all succumb to time in the end. This should be all the knowledge we need to live well.
(Pic courtesy of Ian Hurst)