Nothing

Life is made for the few. Their destiny unfolding like they are heroes written in a book. The rest of us will be nothing, so useless that we are erased not even by eternity but only the days. We are unconsoled by all of us dying all the same, because our fate is the greatest and worse, most commonplace, oblivion. How the thought of my insignificance, even among man, the only place where I even had the chance, compared to the cosmos and compared to time, chips away at my resilience like a solitary leak in a cave far below a waterfall where the water and sunlight hardly fall, unassuming until at once the entire stone-face falls. How merciless. How absurd. What mockery. What comedy. A mountain kneeling to a drop. It does not matter that a trillion drips summate to the sea; to me it has taken only one. Like a shadow, so immaterial even a blade of sun burns, so despicable that even under inspiration I cannot write. And I have not been spared even the dignity to have become. Just as some have always been the pets of god, like limestone, I have always been, I always was, the thing brought into this earth to dissolve. A memory returns to me on this corrosive morning, dying slowly to the machinations of my own sleepless mind, of a teacher who once told me “Cool it” because my words for the school paper and peer feedback were too intense. I thought then my greatest curse was that I could never write for another eye. But now I know I do not have the consolation of having been passionate because what good is a star in some cavity of the universe that never gave birth to life, so far that nothing ever received its sick message, its lecherous light. I have never been growing, developing, or working towards something. I have always been, since birth, in a constant state of amnesia, of undoing. And any warmth I gave off over the years were the biological and bacterial processes of decay. I have not grown to become nothing. All striving has been self-realization. I have always been and always will be nothing, at best an increasing nothing, like a number erased in the countable infinity of the set of all atoms, then by an uncountable infinity between 0 and .001, like a black hole fated to swallow itself, like a single sperm in one single shot of unrealized cum. What difference is there between me and the dead and the unborn? Nothing. Even at the infinitesimal scales of all life, we are nothing. Nothing.