Everything is significant...
There are things we hurl ourselves towards. There are the ways we pull away. The what and the how and the reasons. The for and the against. There is direction. Position and momentum at once. Trajectory and motion. The path that traces the mass and math of ourselves moving through space. The unfolding function of time. All it's variables, expressed upon a graph. Points upon a line. Decisions and indecision. The things we have done and those we did not do.
So much of our lives spent anxious and worried, over meaning, and mattering, and purpose, and intent. Over failure and success. Productivity and stagnation. Moving forward and standing still. Desperate to accomplish something. Scared we never will. As if movement is anything but relative. As if there isn’t a bit of inertia within everything. There is no frame of reference that is absolute. Nothing is unmoving. Everything exists in transit. Everything is transient. Neither subject, nor object, but verb.
We can only measure our velocity in relation. In the velocity of our relations. But, what is the worth of measuring the aim and rate of something so fleeting and so small? Minuscule mammals on a mid-sized planet. Wanderering dust upon a wanderer, wandering around a common yellow star. A trivial point in what Stephen Hawking describes as “the outer suburbs of an ordinary spiral galaxy, which is itself only one of about a million million galaxies” in the vast cosmos of which we are only an infinitesimal part.
The harsh reality is that "history can live without one person", Chuck Palahniuk says. It does not need us at all. The world keeps turning whether or not we're here.
But, some things change with the size of things. Some processes become prevalent, some no longer apply. Sometimes small things behave differently. Sometimes things get strange.
What if we are beings decoupling from scale? The universe's dirty little secret. It's hidden quirks. It’s hidden quarks. It's nervous tick. An interstellar tell. The Freudian slip of the stars. An unconscious behavior that admits to bigger things.
What if we know we mean something, because we know we don’t mean anything? What if, our irrelevance is a strength? Perhaps, arbitrary and meaningful are the same thing.
We are so beautifully insignificant. A single point at the center of a labyrinth. A billion bits of colored grains. Poured into patterns. Made to be unmade. Wrapped in silk and returned to the river. The ceremony of our dismantling. The poetry of the absurd. Every grain is a blessing. Even, and especially, when swept away.
Because we are never settled. Because we are always leaving. Because we are.
The most meaningful of all things, because it means nothing at all.