After I die, I will probably be remembered as a moody introvert, even if I want to be thought of as a quiet but passionate-in-an-understated way kinda guy. Those that will remember me anyhow will eventually forget or die first. Either way all memory of me will cease.
I accept that. Sad as it is, my life is all I have, and once I lose that, I will have no capacity to worry about whether and how I am remembered.
When I die, cry if you must. But invite no crowds to my burial which did not attend my life. Waste no prose on me in the name of a eulogy or an obituary. Save the coffin money. Dump my cloth-wrapped corpse in the hole and pile the dust atop it. I will not mind or care, lacking the knowledge of all things.
But I yet live. Regrets of my past choices tug at me even now, darkening my countenance with clouds of worry and doubt. I plead to GOD's grace and mercy that the rest of my life shall be full of truth, full of purpose, full of love, this is my prayer.
The esteem of men is fickle and deceptive, a preoccupation for fools.
The favor of GOD, that is life.