I find myself in deep contemplation many times during the day. I spring from thought to thought like a frog from one lily pad to the next. But as of this moment, I am thinking of this.
I am so small.
I am so s
m
a
l
l.
An avalanche that decides to inflict death upon me would not hesitate, would not pause to think, ‘Oh. That’s her. I better not kill her.’
I am not a metahuman gifted with the ability to persuade Nature to “please rethink your decision” of killing me.
If I was deserted on an island and a volcano erupted and I ran and ran and ran I would still get caught in the sweltering river of lava because I am nowhere near fast enough to escape its reach and-
The volcano determines my fate. Not me. I am not powerful enough to stop it. So where does that bring me?
It brings me here. To this. That when the last of my family disappears and I am but a being shriveled by time, when the last person who knew me or knew of me no longer exists. That is when I stop existing too.
And the people who come after will never know that there was once a girl named Michelle who loved Japanese peaches and writing and music and…
existing.
When you are born, the world seems to revolve around your crib. Your parents adhere to every command voiced by your loud cries. People cradle and fawn over your sweet, chubby, baby face.
You grow to become a child, as most living organisms will experience in their lifetime. You aren’t the centre of the universe anymore, but it still feels as though the sun and the moon and Pluto, Mars, and Jupiter orbit around you. And everything’s fine, because of course your life will work out.
Then you are not a child anymore, but a teenager. And there is nothing in the world that makes you feel smaller than standing in an ocean of people at a concert, trying so desperately to get your idol to notice you. But they don’t; they don’t even glance at the part of the arena you stand in, and the concert ends, and you go back to being a fan who will never be recognized.
But some time after that, the narrative of your life isn’t even yours to tell, it’s your boss’s, who decides to ask you for a favor, but it isn’t really asking because you can’t say no and the next thing you know, you’re working late at night when all you want is to be in bed.
So why do you stop being the centre of the universe? When do you stop living life for yourself but for the people around you?
I don’t know. I am struggling to leave this train of thought I have boarded.
“You hold the world in your hands,” my parents say.
“You hold the world in your hands,” says a famous singer.
“You hold the world in your hands,” says the actor I watch in the theatre.
No, I want to say, You are wrong. It is the other way around: the world holds me. The world holds me and so many other people. So many other things.
These are the thoughts that circulate my body as if it is blood, flowing through my lungs and brain and fingertips.
Do not mistake these thoughts for anything other than self-awareness. I am aware of my insignificance in the great picture that is the galaxy.
But if this is all temporary. If there is only a small amount of days and nights that will be accompanied by my presence. If the emotions I evoke in other people’s lives only exist as long as I exist, and vanish when I vanish. Doesn't that make me significant?
I live a life that no one can fully replicate. I give something to the earth that no one else can duplicate.
A painting made by a deceased artist is worth more than one made by a living artist. Because a hand that belongs to a dead man will never create again. There will never be someone who can
mix the same paints and
use the same brush and
touch it to canvas and
paint the same thought
as him.
When I die there will never be someone who will
walk the same steps that I have and
view the world in the same way I do and
think the same things
as me-
that is my last thought.
The time has come for me to disembark this seemingly never-stopping train. And without intending to, I’ll be back soon.
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