Most of us are so busy constructing and remodeling the magnificent building, which we call our identity, that few of us notice its fragmentation until we're impaired by its disassembly. We lovingly acquire rooms and carefully create partitions as our edifice develops; and most of us ignore the broken foundation, the neglected areas, and the stolen parts. We sacrifice materials and donate apartments for others, in the groundless belief that repairs or replacements will always restore our private dwelling. Eventually we learn how changes have distorted us, how acts have tilted us, how losses have weakened us. Our pretty building is not what it was, nor is it what we intended it to become. Our cherished manor has fragments scattered throughout many lives, and amidst our many affairs; leaving parts in other houses, and trails to other estates. Piecemeal fragmentation can be attributed to many incidents, from wars and careers to crises and families, but almost no one is cohesive, no residence is unified, no habitation is integrated. In time we realize just how disjointed we've become; but the truth is that the vacant wreck that we've become was always there. When the windows glistened and the doorknobs gleamed, we thought our humble home would be exceptional and enduring. We imagine that our now dilapidated villa, despite its sagging floors and leaking roof, will mean something beyond itself. We conceived grand dreams and plotted larger schemes in the not unreasonable expectation that our great deeds shall preserve us beyond decay ... shall make our noble mansion into a monument for the inspiration of young innocents ... but we are only rearranging the dust. Do not begrudge the ashes that were once like you.