The Book of the Dead.

Life has no meaning, it's only value stands with what we place on it.
Even then none of us can make life mean more or less by our own will or thought of it.
We cannot put a price tag on life.
Consideration means nothing.
There is no weight to balance, no scales to consider.

No power, influence, or wealth can create worth.
No self entitlement, self worth, or self love
But neither can charity, generosity or other such acts of giving.
Nothing changes what life is.
Not our ideas, belief systems, cultures, traditions, or anything else that we create.

Life stands in obscurity and absurdism despite our thought of it or our input.
Life lacks all reason and purpose.
Life holds nothing, it hasn't the arms or hands, it neither loves nor hates.

We however being the cruel human beings that we are, can create such love or hate relationships with pretty much anything.
If things are going great; then life is heaven.
If things are going terrible; then life is hell.
When nothing has changed at all.

If there is such thing as enlightenment; it must be to fully understand that there was never an enlightenment to achieve.
That there is no knowledge to gain because we create everything, there's no grand scheme or plan, the bigger picture has nothing in it. And the canvas is only painted with what we painted.

Therefore; if life is a canvas and we look at it; we can either love what we see and appreciate the work of art,
or we can see no talent nor skill in it at all, and therefore to us it is not a painting of art, or beauty but instead simply a canvas.

If we strip everything away, we too are like that : a canvas.
We are voided of everything, we are blank unless we paint something upon our lives, upon ourselves.
Even then it doesn't change what we are.
We are objects, floating around in space, energy moving around until it's worn out, and passes from one state to the next.

We are simply doing what we are programmed to do, moving around, existing.
The eat, sleep,shit, work, reproduce, repeat.
An endless pointless cycle that encapsulates nothing, because there was never anything to encase.

(Dream I had.)
I dreamed I went missing, and nobody looked for me. There was a police investigation but after a while my case went into the cold case files.
I was abducted by a serial killer tortured, and killed, buried in the middle of nowhere, where nobody would be looking. Afterwards when I woke up, I felt indifferent to it all, still feeling that way, numb or this sense of "It figures" that's how I'd die.
But it did make me think of (O.G.s) Linkin park's song Leave out all the rest.

Then it got me thinking, there isn't anything I'm leaving behind that's worth anything. And I cannot control how I will be remembered. I do know people myself included tend to think more highly of the person then they actually were.
I think most people have more positive thoughts about that person than negative ones when they're gone.

I think it's because we're afraid of how we will be remembered,and so we remember others in a higher regard than they might have actually deserved.
Not that it would matter to me when I am dead anyway.