An obscure dot in the cosmos- we are like the moving, shifting pores on the body of a starfish, strangely immobile to look at but heaving and breathing all the same.
I often wonder what happens if we are really alone in the entire universe? That there is no meaning to our existence other than this, that we must live?
Our stories, letters, encounters, memories are not getting absorbed by some giant consciousness.
Who is looking down on us? No aliens, no God? Just particles and stars and suns swirling in galaxies, beautiful words to look at, beautiful concepts to understand but no beauty in their unconscious existence apart from the beauty we assign them.
Desolate stretches of sand. An ending sky.
Surely the universe ends somewhere. Everything is contained within something.
What if all this means nothing? This is what Hesse had talked about when he had talked about the suicides. Those that see death as the reliever, the giver. Maybe those of us who couldn't deal with the false facade of meaning we put over everything to give our lives a purpose, choose death, have chosen death for centuries. But maybe that is the cruel irony- there is nothing after death either. No meaning, no purpose.
We are. We just are.
picture from www.starseedblog.com
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