It is a bit of a trip to stop and think about just how much you would leave behind if you died. Friends, family, sure. But I also have unifinished stories. Stories not yet complete, not even outlines; a great many of their endings do not even exist in my mind.
And it scares me to think that those stories might end up in someone else's hands, or die altogether. Smurths and Smithies for instance. Who would keep writing that? Who knows but me what is really happening? The story would die. Jemma would forever be poised to initiate her coup against Beth. Crow would remain unconscious on the Eye of Palapatine II. Jesse would remain in a healing trance till Ragnarok.
Then there is Daniel Erickson, a man displaced because he fears to be a hero. He has barely made it to paper. No one can fathom what he will become. And if I died no one would ever have more than a few paragraphs to know that Daniel ever existed.
The Mallor brothers and the Outcasts.
Shett and Summet.
Marten and Sun.
The Last of the NoFreakins.
They would all die with me. Them and all their compatriots. My demise would be the demise of dozens, hundreds, whole nations.
Maybe they only exist in my mind, but they exist nonetheless. It gives reason to go on, to buckle my seat belt, to be nice to people more dangerous than me, to keep my head up and my eyes open.
I may fail at times, but I can never go quietly into the dark.
There are too many people counting on me.
Because I have to...