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I once read 

that history is just fragments,

memories cracked like old pottery,

washed in someone else’s truth,

diluted by the angle of power.

Written by those

who stood tallest in their era 

or believed they did.

The great, the crowned,

the ones with ink and authority,

bending time to their reflection.

And then another arrived,

rewrote, reshaped, re-imagined 

words melted and poured

into a new mould.

Maybe it was their story,

or maybe the story we wanted

to survive.

Someone asked 

subjective or objective?

Which page is real?

Which truth did history kneel to?

Whose pen carried the louder voice?

Yet one thing stands, unshaken:

They built wonders.

Civilizations like temples of breath,

rituals that still burn like incense

in the rooms of our memory.

Stone, road, scripture, rhythm 

they raised them like pillars

so we could grow, learn,

admire, and continue the echo.

Perhaps they were just historians

of survival

the ones who endured long enough

to carve their name into time.

Survival writes attendance,

existence becomes ink.

One day, we too will be history 

faded photographs of breath,

a story retold by someone

who never met us,

who may misunderstand

yet still create a version

to remember.

I do not know

whose favour we’ll be written in,

whose lips will speak our names,

whose truth will preserve

or distort our footprints.

But history shapes the eyes

through which we see the world 

and we, my friend,

we are not outside it.

We are threads in the fabric.

We are echoes moving forward.

We are tomorrow’s memory,

slowly turning into dust 

and into legend.

We are history.

Living, breathing, writing itself

through us.