When I was in school, I learnt about people, people so great that the world remembered them centuries later, people who worked all their lives to achieve a goal and in most cases died suddenly.. horrifically, or in other words, most unsatisfactorily.

That’s when I came to terms with a sad fact of life; that there are no merry endings to a person’s story. It all ends in death.

It got me thinking; why work at all? Why have ambitions, why build for yourself a fanciful future and then waste all your time trying to attain it and once you’ve done that, dream some more and plunge once again in to an ocean of endless efforts and endeavours.

Days later, it came to me while I was pouring over the biography of a long gone man. I was reading about the dead man because he had achieved something while he was alive.

The key, therefore, was to do something that lives in a time when nothing remains of you other than your decomposing remains. It’s a bonus if your work outlives your bones– but then that’s my criteria of success.

Hereon forth, I embark on this journey to immortality. There are no guarantees for victory, only an attempt to journal the process just in case it happens.

Praying that there are more anecdotes of narcissism, self-loathing or even some philosophical contemplations, I say goodbye.