Life isn’t the car you drive, the suit you wear, the size of your wallet… it’s the amount of lives you’ve touched, people you’ve affected, and what you mean to those individuals. I could be a millionaire but be the ugliest SOB who ever lived and ultimately be meaningless. Or, on the other hand, I could have little more than a big red truck and the clothes on my back but have the knowing, the absolute truth that at least one person in the world thinks something of me, worries about me, appreciates what I do and understands it. Love is a wonderful thing, but by itself is hopeless and without purpose—a love shared, now that can change the world with every growing beat, every strengthening moment. I want nothing for myself but to be needed by others; to be remembered for being something good, or even great: I want to be a good guy.
And if that is what life is, then this is how I would measure it: memories. Your history is what makes you, what defines who you are and the choices you’re going to make. Our entire lives we’re making choices. Life’s measurement can be summarized as the chore of making one decision after another, from first breath to last. Waking up in the morning, putting your clothes on, and eating breakfast are all choices, whether you’re conscious of them or not. You didn’t have to crawl out of bed; you didn’t need to butter that waffle; you don’t have to do anything, but doing something is a choice. The object is then to make more right decisions than bad. At eighty years old, when you ask yourself if you’ve had a good life, the answer will be determined solely by the choices you have made, the memories you carry, the things you’ve done for others…