My humble self
In the dead of night, in the small half-eternity of darkness, my existence is nothing more than the leaves rustling in the wind and music, which is already faded before it's ever sounded. I am a living being who calls himself man, on a planet, the earth calls it, somewhere in this star puddle that has paid anyone or anything once.
Just so I'm a little more than nothing. My existence is barely above absolute zero value. These, only the children in countries across the equator for the hold. You can not live, do not exist. Only for the earth on which they lived and to which they return. Only for their mothers.
I am a child of the West, I can scream my nothingness into the world, I may vomit words, I can create a world view. All this only for more than an ape, to have an opinion that everyone has to discuss, argue to curse, to curse.
Everything here loses its meaning when it is equated with the universe, when one thinks of the other six billion people in the world. Mozart's sonatas are just strumming without rhythm, compared with the perfect silence of space. Picasso's Guernica is a tangled structure of lines, one compares it with the billions of images that portrays the life here every day.
I myself - I am a little more than nothing.
But still I have this thought that hovers as high as otherwise blow off the clouds, must return to the summer pastures. It may be that I am nothing in the face of the stars, but in the little universe that I create my life, I am beginning and end.
