Who I am doesn't matter at all.
It counts for nothing.
In my genetic code, every living being is present,
every character in Earth's theatre.
Each one performs its own role
here, within me.
My time is relative only in relation to others.
The present—yet everywhere the same:
the universe's present, the beetle's on the ground,
or anything else, in you and in me.
You say: it is a "classic cosmic pessimism".
I say: "Ok."
The universe is exhausting in its perfect,
unyielding way.
It simply happens.
My consciousness means nothing to it.
My importance is zero.
You say: "My consciousness is a miracle".
I say: "Ok",
Lives fall, one after another,
into the pit of time.
All their information, their memories,
are nothing but new combinations,
new arrangements of identical particles.
As a human being, I am not a miracle.
I mean nothing.
When I eventually perish,
my particles will still be recycled
for as long as the Earth exists.
And when that too is destroyed,
the atoms that are now my eyes, my hair,
will drift into another thing.
This has happened before,
and it will happen again,
again and again.
Because this entire system—the universe itself—
is the play of chance arrangements.
The only good thing about my life
is that I might be able to understand it
once.
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