The first time comes when our heart ceases its rhythm, and the world carries on without our footsteps. The second death is quieter, and more painful, as it arrives when our stories stop being told.
Every memory, every shared laughter, every moment of reflection becomes a bridge between our existence and eternity. Stories are the echoes we send into time, proof that we were here and that our thoughts once mattered.
When I or others speak of our past, we each lend borrowed breath to those who shaped it. When I write, I plant seeds that hopefully will bloom long after I am gone. To share a story is to whisper “I lived”, and I saw, and did.

Stories are how we explain our hearts, and minds to the world, why we think as we do, and what we feel or hope that dissappears or remains. Whether whispered to a friend, scribbled in a journal, or written on a blog or website; every story carries a spark of immortality. Through these stories I, and we, live again, again, and again.