You can look at it this way; we’re all just sacks of blood and skin on the surface of a rock, floating endlessly through an infinite vacuum. Minute, diminutive, insignificant specks in the face of gaping infinity.
Or you could look at the miracle of it all. We’re living, breathing, with a heart that beats ceaselessly, tirelessly all our lives in its cage of bone. We have blood and sinew and organs and all these tiny little pieces that fit somehow and make up these imperfect, but amazing bodies. And we’re not just hollow marionettes; we have a mind and a soul and a conscience; that niggling little voice in our head.
We feel so much more than what such a small,fist sized, beating heart could ever encompass, we think beyond our fragile yet resilient bodies and restless souls and seek, seek, endlessly seek- whether it’s salvation, or answers, or revenge or ecstasy, everything is a quest. We’ve taken time as it is, colossal and vast and infinite, and have broken it up,into hours and minutes and seconds, days, years and decades, and measured it using sand and the sun and the little ticking hands of a clock.
We fall and we break, and feel ourselves shatter into irreparable shards. And then, oh then, hope blossoms through like stars blooming on a dark sky, and we pick our little selves up, and glue those infinitesimal pieces back together. We crash and burn, and rise from the ashes to soar again and again. The sky could crumble over our heads and the earth could rumble under our feet; mountains could fall and the sea could swirl about the places we loved and we would still find a way to survive, the human would trudge on somehow. Because even with tears streaming down our cheeks, even with torn hearts and a crushed soul and a broken body, we march on. Survive. That’s what we’ve done since we discovered fire and invented the wheel, and made our way up to travel among the stars and set foot on the moon. We’ve battled plague and pestilence, faced famine and flood, spilled blood in wars and revolution, and still found a way to grow.
Because that is the way we are made. Bodies and hearts concentrated with experiences and memories that last beyond the span of our brief lives, bottled up with a spectrum of feelings, and a universe of thought. Stories and songs and poems that transcend the barriers of time, loves eternal and fleeting.
We stumble and make mistakes, we are stubborn, angry, wistful and longing; we lust after impossible dreams, chasing our fantasies long after we should have given up. We have faith enough to change the course of history itself; we cling on to even phantoms of hope, ghosts and echoes: tendrils of smoke curling up from the final gasps of a dying fire. And we dream. We dream of things far beyond our reach, and shed our blood and sweat and work our way to the top of the summit, defying the very concept of impossibility.
For that is the miracle of mankind.