What are you going to do when you have grown up

As taking anything to your grave or into the afterlife isn’t a possibility, I have to ask you this:
What are you leaving behind you, you fucking piece of shit?
Will there be pictures of you in people’s wallets? A story that sells millions because you lived like a ticking bomb? A song that has you in it, on it, singing it, whatever?

Will they frame a more beautiful version of you, name you the prophet and buy your idea of life as a religion?

Will you add to the marketing industry? Will you be a Che who asked for upliftment of the poor and ended up being a style statement for the rich?

Will your illustrious life burn right after you, giving nothing away? Or, would you be a mystery with little holes in what was previously your skeleton closet and now, has translated to your new life?

Will you be in a room, piled and devoured with the last embarrassment your sphincter will ever cause you?

Or will they find you scribbled on your walls? Will you leave behind you a trail of faces that emote and learned to love you, like only kin can? Will you have someone to call your own?

Will you be a posthumous superstar? Will you burn till you live and leave marks – wanton, beautiful marks – when you leave? Will you have a presence that is too strong to erase?

You don’t understand, I have to do this. Outside of words my life is amount to exactly Rs 12,487 (a little less that American $360). I am an OK person with occasional bouts of rage and a day or two of depression in a month. Outside of words, I am a black suit, grey tie. Inside here, I am everything I want to be. This is what I have to leave behind.