What is the legacy you want to leave behind?

Does it even matter? You’re dead. So who gives a shit? You’re not here to care.

The better question—the real one—is: how much can you stop from becoming your so-called “legacy”? Because in this twitching, code-soaked circus we call modern life, legacy isn’t what you leave behind—it’s what’s scraped off your digital corpse.

Your phone already knows more about you than your mother ever did. It tracks your steps, listens when you whisper, watches your face twitch under blue light. Algorithms stitch together a ghost-version of you—one that scrolls, shops, swipes, and sins in your absence. And when you die? That ghost lives on. That becomes you.

And if some bored troll wants to smear your memory with some fake-ass pedo conspiracy, congratulations: that’s now the headline of your afterlife. Doesn’t matter if you cured cancer. All it takes is one pixelated lie to flush your entire existence down the toilet.

So fuck your legacy. Seriously. Live instead.

Make a difference if you can, sure—but don’t get high on the idea of being remembered. That’s ego dressed in angel wings. You’ll miss the one thing you were actually chasing. The thing that was right in front of you before you got obsessed with being eternal.

Let go. Breathe. Live before the algorithm finishes writing your eulogy.