Life. Such a simple premise, but so complicated in execution. We work to live, live to work, and fritter away our time making memories. Memories fade, and memories become ever so apparent, as we enter the cycle of making memories, and reminiscing. We work, we party, we form the most insignificant of events into everlasting memories, memories of a time when we were much happier, much younger, full of enthusiasm and joy as we drive head-on into the world around us, living, remembering, working, trying to get by and trying not to miss a beat as we fritter time away endlessly. Such a simple premise of existence, supplying our bodies with nutrients to carry us ever onwards until the day death knocks at our door, completely skewed by notions of sentiments. Relationships, friendships, family obligations, responsibilities, work, play, balancing the future with the present, and making time for the past, all activities distracting ourselves from the truth of our existence. Its meaninglessness, its insignificance, its silence deafening and its roar silencing, life is nothing but what we choose to take from it. An act becomes a memory, a memory becomes a story, and stories are all we have the day we meet our maker. Life is nothing, nothing but what we make of it. So illustrates the real nature of humans, trying, in their own little ways, to hide from death and all it brings, although it brings nothing new. It brings nothingness, and we live… in nothingness. Death is nothing but the realisation that all is for naught, and it is all but unbearable to all. Live life, regret nothing, and write your story. That is the essence of life in itself.