I’m running out of time, so I’ll be brief.
I am wasting my life on meaningless things. This gift, the miracle the universe bestowed upon me, is being used to do nothing of worth or wisdom. I will leave nothing upon this world after I die. Not even my name, the very word I call myself, will be anything but insignificant. Based upon that fact, there are thousands of “me”s on this Earth. Not one of us will matter.
I saw something extraordinary today: the frail, foolish beginnings of the biggest star in my eyes. I saw the soft edges of a meaningless thing, the doings of an insignificant name. At that moment, my star was no more blindingly beautiful than I am now. He had nothing, as I do; he was not more worth more than I am.
But he made himself beautiful. He forced people to look upon him and think him the most precious, beloved singularity in their lives. He built a foundation on praise and pride, crafted bricks from the love of millions to create his home in the land of the gods.
He can do that. It is not as if I couldn’t, just that I will not. Anything I do not accomplish in this life will not be a product of inability but of incapability. I haven’t tried, and yet I believe I can’t. He tried, and failed. He tried again, and failed. He tried, and tried, and tried, and tried, and tried, and tried, and tried, and tried, and tried.
I typed all of those “and tried”s. There was no copy and paste used here.
But he made it. And I won’t.
Because I stake my meaninglessness, my insignificance, my born-to-be-beautiful name, on these words, words that are as flimsy as my will to try.