Insignificance

I think I could sit here, staring into the distance forever. So many lives, so many times. I wonder how many people have lain here, on this cold stone floor, in the middle of the night, with that single lamp illuminating their surroundings. I wonder how many people have lain here and had thoughts similar to mine. Those of feeling out of place. Those of feeling so very small. Those of feeling so very alone.

I breathe in the cold air of this witching hour and feel an emptiness filling me. Remarkable isn’t it, how emptiness has the power to consume a person? It is timeless, fathomless in its essence. Has no form no shape. And yet, it is so very tangible. It is at these times, when I realize how truly small I am. How insignificant. And yet, this is what makes me feel startlingly significant. Like in the map of this world I mark a spot. A tiny insignificant one, yet a spot. A spot that completes this patchwork of eyes, of souls of thoughts, of emotions.  I exist. And yet, I don’t. Not really. In a world so huge, with this emptiness consuming me, do I really exist? Do I really matter? Am I any more than a fragment? Perhaps the fragment that is forgotten. A tiny bump in the vase, that is missing one piece, and yet no one really notices its absence. The bump that fingers simply never feel. So miniscule, that the piece that fits in there is kicked under the couch, forgotten. Yes it completes the vase, but no one really notices this tiny flaw. The eyes never stop roving, never notice the absence.

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