How short our life is. A mere hundred years. Only a breath. Only a raindrop. Only so much. A tree lives a few hundred more, a rock may last millions and the most beautiful of rocks – our mother earth – may continue to spin in the darkness for billion more. But there will come a day when our cosmic spaceship will run out of gas. She will stop her wonderful dance and will explode into oblivion leaving no trace behind. As if she never even existed. Nothing happened. No one will ever know about those wild adventures, those sleepless nights and those joyful days of her childhood. How beautiful, innocent and playful she was in her teens, how she blinked her eyes, moved her lips, played with her hair and amused at our shyness and smiled at our clumsiness. Life was buzzing inside her. We were madly in love. Those romantic dates, amorous duels and midnight kisses. How elegant, energetic and passionate she was in her mature years and how wise and intelligent she became in her old age. How many hearts she broke and how many – she healed. How many dreams she fulfilled and how many – she took away. Macbeth was wrong. Her life was never a tale to be told. It was to be lived. Yes, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing, not a tale to be told, but a life to be lived. She came from nothing and to nothing she returned. From darkness to darkness. Light was a happy accident. Something worth celebrating for, but never worth remembering.
The clock is ticking away as the universe continues to expand. How strange of a feeling it is – to be aware of our own mortality, our own insignificance in the grand scale of things, to contemplate our sure disappearance from the annals of history. Imagine only, there will come a day when you won’t exist anymore. No you in the universe! No memories and tombstones. All of your worries and troubles will melt away like snowflakes in the hand. All the resources you had accumulated for yourself will be scattered among strangers and wanderers. As if you haven’t lived at all.
Even for the most famous men in the world, there will come a day when their name will no longer mean a thing and all of their heroic deeds and powerful words will be washed away like pebbles in the sea.
There will come a day when it will seem that you have lost everything. A day when your beloved and dear ones won’t be around anymore. One after another they will fall like autumn leaves. In vain will you weep your heart out and in vain will you cry for love, help and justice. How futile it is to seek for pity and how foolish it is to long for the mother’s breast and to seek shelter under the father’s hand. No one is listening to your tears. The universe is silent and devoid of compassion. Death is the rule and life is an exception. As Sir James Jeans once wrote: “All roads lead to Rome, and the end of the journey cannot be other than universal death.”
For a score of years you might be remembered and even admired by a minority of few who would have avoided your company while you were alive. But why would you want to be remembered at all? What good does it do to you if you are no longer here among the living? What good does it do to you if you cannot enjoy the fruits of your labor? What good does it do to you if you are starving but possess no mouth to appease your hunger?
Only a few more decades, perhaps a century from now and our magical and otherwise splendid journey will have come to a finale. Our bones will rest in the mantle of earth only to vanish into sublime nothingness. As if we never even existed. No memories to be remembered and no tales to be told. How short our life is. Only a breath. Only a raindrop. Only so much.