Why I Don't Care To Be Remembered — And Living My Experience Through My Work

The legacy I leave behind, the accomplishments and triumphs held to my name... it means nothing. I now know I need not achieve, but experience.

Forgetting Remembrance, Remembering To Live

One day, I realized I was already 16 and hadn't become a "hyper genius" with 20 businesses like societal expectations claimed I was supposed to. I was racing against the clock.

Forget that, I was already behind – I had to play catch-up. While I explored many new endeavors starting that summer, the following years saw little progress.

I would try to write, produce music, or make some application. Hell, just be proficient in anything.

But a single sentence took all my energy. Countless days of blasting sound into my ears only worsened the situation – including my hearing.

My projects, and prospects – were embarassing.

This cycle of stressing myself out, making no progress, and finding more stress continued for years. I kept failing and failing. A sea of endeavors never started, incomplete, or subparly done.

I'm 8 years past the age this began. I realize I don't care anymore. A major project, making it big, cultivating a laundry list of bragging rights and accomplishments.

I don't care.

Okay, it's not that I don't care. But the year I was supposed to have everything together and achieve some magnificent feat has passed so many times.

I've discovered many insights that make me question this notion – what it means to "make something" of oneself. To be "worthwhile" and not a useless sack of dung.

Public accolade was the definition ingrained in me. Create something for public consumption, and receive praise and recognition.

If one is not recognized, then clearly one is not worthy.

This put my self-esteem in the hands of external influence – and a distorted one with social media. Unrealistic expectations at best, complete lies at worst.

I've worked on endeavors that seemed mystical before. I've explored these "complex concepts" and unknown frontiers further.

Yet everything feels trivial still. The fulfillment I feel passes soon.

I know enough to build a "real-world" software application now. I was inundated with how difficult and complex the domain was and demotivated in the process to depression.

If I were to claim this knowledge, I would ascend to an elite status only a worthy few were capable of.

Well, I've made a few apps now. I don't feel any of that. I just did math on data, moved it somewhere, and showed it in an interface. A far cry from a "savant-like, legendary whiz wizard."

Across many different activities, my experiences never match the folklore of what it means to accomplish and endure challenges. I never intellectually ascended drawing a character or composing a song.

While I seek to be remembered, I will only be remembered for what I am not.

Sensationalism and spin took these ideas and dauntingly elevated them. That is precisely what I believe happens when relinquishing my story for the desire of a "legacy."

I've observed how external praise operates and experienced how I feel about it. Spoiler alert – it's not a good feeling.

What was touted as a vessel for endless love and support, feels only vapid. It seemed ridiculous I was miffed by compliments internally. But I know why now.

The general accolades I know take the form of a lengthy story. Something like – "He worked hard, and used mindful creativity to become the best at what he did. You accomplished this through grit and struggles alike."

There are some things I look back on and think – that wasn't so bad. But never during any process do I ruminate about "persistence" and "grit."

I either had the energy and ideas or didn't for various reasons. I couldn't figure out some issues myself, but I never lived this fairytale – it was created.

This was the answer to the question– why would I dislike compliments? Maybe I was just crazy. But it wasn't a unique situation as evidenced by Googling.

What I'm remembered for is often only a narrative for a purpose – an example to be made of, a point to be argued, a commodity to be sold.

My own story is told back to me as a derivative work and truth, even attempting to usurp what I know are my own experiences.

I cannot feel content under these circumstances.

I've found the happiest compliment I can receive is just two words – "Good job." There is no underlying unease speaking one-to-one with those I've come to know. Each word is meaningful, there is no fat on the message.

As such, the words of few are words of those I can trust.

Even disregarding intent, I also question the merit of public recognition. I've discovered the number of eyes isn't always representative of what's best, let alone best for me.

Many harms and detriments are popular. And once again, it will never be my truth that is popularized, but the spin and interpretation.

I've recently taken on more challenges in my pro bono work, reaching out to new organizations and projects.

I receive no widespread recognition for this work. Some tasks aren't groundbreaking, but a tiny part of "boring" organizational logistics.

However, I get thanks from people on a personal level, and it feels cathartic.

This was my eye-opener moment. I didn't need to make a million-user game or write a story enjoyed worldwide to feel fulfilled.

All I needed was to feel appreciated, and that I've made a meaningful difference. For that, I only needed one.

My feelings toward recognition are not about what is said – but who's saying the words. This has always applied – a friend calling me stupid is banter, but from a stranger, it's an insult.

I've realized the same applies positively. All the platitudes in the world cannot make me feel complete. A single sentence from a pal can make my week.

I no longer care for the mass interaction that, no thanks to social media, I believed was pivotal to happiness. The detriments to this accessibility make it the very opposite.

Memento Mori'd

Above all, my care for eternal legacy is broken from my recent thoughts. I remembered a key factor about my life – the fact that I will die.

Well, I always knew that. But I haven't thought about death in-depth. Maybe there's an afterlife, but I can only live as though there isn't, as I'm not there yet.

I envisioned a lifeless version of myself buried 6 feet under. My body isn't forever either. My flesh will decompose, and my bones will erode down.

There won't be a trace of my existence left.

There are the philosophical remnants. The works and ideas I've created, the descendants I leave behind. Those that hold my memory.

But that media will stop being preserved eventually. Those after me will leave this world too. Soon, there won't be any recollection left of me.

That's to assume I'm even remembered in the present. How often do I think about others and their triumphs? When I do, does it matter, or is it just a fleeting thought?

If I'm documented but unseen, am I truly remembered?

This isn't even a pessimistic outlook. I dislike the "no one cares about you," tough-it-up self-help spiel. That sounds like it's an actively malicious act.

I think it's more "no one can care." Apart from human nature, there's so much going on in one's life, that it's impossible to think so much about everyone else without destroying one's mind.

That sounds closer to the truth. But if we're going the depressing route, I've felt abandoned by society, devoid of opportunity, and imposed by horrific worthlessness no matter what I do.

I certainly don't feel remembered in the present, so it's hard to believe the future will be any different.

But in truth, I am forgotten and remembered constantly as I live. I'm hardly remembered for who I am though. The few falsehoods that outlast me, will not last for long.

The sky blue room with glow-in-the-dark paint. My childhood bunk bed. The fish tank in my grandparent's house.

Experiences and memories like these will be lost to time. Many have already gone.

Yet my experiences and feelings are immortal. The emotions that have come from the highs and lows. The immutable fact that my life was lived, even if it's forgotten.

I only get one shot at this, unless reincarnation exists. But once again, I'll have to assume it doesn't until I see it.

I won't sell away that experience for surface-level laurels. Ones that bring me no joy, but certainly frustration. That will only ensure the ever-lasting recollection of a single emotion – regret.

Come next year, when I haven't brought that hit project to life, it won't matter. 5 years from now when I haven't garnered the praise and recognition of the world, it still won't matter.

I will complete that work not for the status, but for the experience. The feeling of seeing a life-long vision come alive.

The culmination of years of failures, and to feel what it's like to see this story in its finished state. That's on my own time.

I'd lie to say no personal benefit comes from my volunteer work either. I receive resume additions and exposure to technologies and processes.

Had I not been struck with this multi-year unemployment, it's possible I never would've ventured into volunteerism. I would not wish this situation on anyone, but I am glad to have experienced this domain.

Contrary to everything I've said, awards and pennants are nice. But not when they derail my journey.

They're merely documentation to remember my feelings – self-meaning in contributing to positive causes and feeling appreciated.

I still record videos, photos, and writing. Not to prove to the world I exist but for me. They're another chance to relive those emotions again – the replay itself becoming part of my experience.

I've lost time to the stress and pressure of the external. No matter what triumphs I could acclaim earlier compared to what I've started now, they become the same nothingness in 100 years.

I will not waste more time. By letting my time go, I finally spend it effectively on myself.

Everything I do shall only serve to kindle my aliveness while it lasts.