There’s a man. Made his name. Done everything. Looks back over his life and decides the only thing left to do is to write it up; chronicle it. He keeps starting but can’t put it into words. He has achieved everything he ever set out to do and yet it amounts to nothing. Who has he helped?
Having a nice family doesn’t make him a good person. A list of books he’s read, gigs he’s been to, films he’s enjoyed and CDs he’s listened to a lot makes him a list maker not an important person in his country’s history.
He gets it. He resigns himself. He is nothing. He was nothing. Suddenly he sees his life in dust and ashes and he rushes out of the coffin and demands that the undertaker give him his life back because he did it wrong first time.
But he didn’t. You can only do it right. There is no wrong. You made the only mark you could ever make. The end.