In light of the sheer immensity of things, any endeavor, however well executed, is bound to seem trivial and small. We write poems, build bridges, send rockets to the moon; yet within this vast expanse, the page is small, the earth is small, the moon is small, the galaxy is small. How powerful, really, would a universal lens have to be to even show we are here? One partial answer might be, we are our own lens; another might be, does it matter if we are seen? Do the earth, moon, and galaxy exist in the hope that they matter to the other planets and galaxies and whatever else lay beyond? And does the universe care, or is it itself a relatively insignificant one of many? Without science, on one hand, these words would have no meaning. Without wonder, they would have no beauty or use at all. And without words — I have to ask — would anything exist at all? Vanity of vanities! Smallest of small! And still people pose, holding our drinks and our cigarettes just so — holding our laughter, holding our tears, holding our elections and our religious ceremonies, holding our meetings and sales seminars, holding our noses for the reek of it all. Punching our tickets. Pretending we know. Afraid to say, I am dying, I contain multitudes.
June 15, 2020. Evening.
[ 780 ]
Categories: Everything and Nothing, New Poems & Pieces
Tags: Consciousness, Death, Diaries, Journals, Knowledge, Life, Poems, Poetry, Vanity, Walt Whitman, Wonder, Words