Am I only a speck?
I watch as a speck of dust floats and settles in the afternoon sunshine.
Do specks mind their meaninglessness?
Do specks of dust bewail the brevity of their earthly dance? Do they weep from time to time about the vanity of their journey to resting on the arm of a sweet heart's couch? Do they moan and say...
"Thus go I! A speck floating across a cruel and indifferent universe, with no destiny but to adorn antique furniture?"
But then, I'm told I am only a speck.
A smattering of matter, not mattering a smatter. Born to struggle and die and decay. To become nothing more than Fertilizer for daffodils. A floating speck of dust in the afternoon sun. Destined only to frustrate the housewife by coating her house in dust.
I am not very good at being a speck. Nor at submitting to a speckish destiny, or non destiny as it were.
I am possessed of the persistent imagination that this all means something. Something more than I can say.
I write poems.
I ponder lofty things.
I find myself praying and falling in love.
I am not a good speck. I make too much of things.
I cry when they tell me all this means nothing — the dancing leaves, returning spring, compassion — I grieve. LIke I've lost something. But how can you lose something that never was to being with?
But I have lost something.
We have lost something.
There is a fathomless ache, a chasm meant for something filled with nothing, a spasm towards creating and loving and meaning things.
We writhe and weep and rail against the darkness. We are not satisfied. We are not certain. But we are not resigned.
And, I ask again: Do specks mind their meaninglessness?
Because, I think, perhaps, I am not a speck.
He has made everything beautiful in its time. He has also set eternity in the human heart; yet no one can fathom what God has done from beginning to end. (Ecclesiastes 3:11)