My infinitesimal self in the world’s space

My infinitesimal self in the world’s space

“… and I'm just one whisper in an ocean of voices…”

Really I am, and it’s not such a bad thing to think, is it? I wonder this to me, as I think on the turn of events my life has taken over the past few years. What can I say of them? What can I think of them? What have they done to me? What have I done to them? All these questions and more flip up and about my mind as they search for answers; I really hope I have them…

But really, what is me? And what do I make myself up to be? I think I’ll deal with the first, first, and here’s what I think:

I am a whisper borne out of a singularity of voices,

And the voices all merge into one-

(You’ll expect it to be loud then, right? No.)

I am a whisper borne out a singularity of voices,

Floating on the surfaces of thoughts and ideas and feelings-

I could never make one of my own, and I am my own shadow: crazy paradox.

I bear upon me, the mark of the minute, and I may be grand in my own eyes,

But then in whose eyes?

I live in the corner of world’s mind, and the world could move on without knowing I was born, or even if I die; the world could care less. Certain things are unchangeable, however much we could try to alter their states of being. This much I've come to realize, much to the perhaps new sight I've been blessed with- or maybe wisdom just came onto me.

That the world is one large piece, flat or round it could care less. All it knows is that it’s been there for aeons before I arrived and would remain for aeons after I leave; the world and its systems. By systems I refer not to the humanly instituted ways of nothingness, but rather the very processes that form the world’s core, and the basis for its near eternal consequence:

”… they could move before I wake up…”

The world is not moved with the conduct of my affairs, whether I conduct them with utmost dignity, respect and honor, or with no regard for continuance of order; the world is not moved. This seems strange, and damaging, thanks to the pride I've been blessed with. Yet the world could care less, maybe even laugh as I try so hard to matter to it. And to what end might I matter to it? To the end that I become like the dust it blows upon and is gone, swallowing me up in itself, searching for me again and forgetting it just swallowed me.

The world could laugh still, at my pride and arrogance and my ambitious air,

As I wrap myself with my thick cords of reason; the world laughs still

At my pathetic little life-

What’s my one hundred years of existence to compare to an eternal sky?

Or an eternal road however fast I run? I could boast of the great things I could do;

I could boast of a lot of things but to a world that reaches far beyond my existence,

I might as well be one grain of sand in the Atlantic. And the great things I boast about, the vast world could call silly, for what can I do that will astound the world? What could I do that will bring the world to its knees? What great and terrible thing could I do that would make the world cower and never forget my name? What could I do which has never been done or seen before?

And the world has one answer for that, Nothing. Nothing could strike the world as strange as it gazes on the memories of history with fond eyes that hold the past, and the past so resembles the present for history is always condemned to repeat itself; the future should not be so much different.

The world’s space is simply very large, like a large room and I’m simply in the corner of the room, the room could care less about my existence; I could leave the room and it should not know: does a grain of sand increase the weight of the Atlantic? And I'm subject to the world’s space, for it is the space that chooses my perceptions, dictating as it sees fit. I could claim independence, but that is the system of the world, history has condemned me to seek such independence however illusory. I may be independent, but the chain is simply very long and I’ll be yanked back to place one day, and the world is very patient, very, very patient. If it’s before I die, good. If I’ve died before I get yanked into place then the better for it, or for me, or it’ll make no difference whatever.

The stretch of my knowledge could not fathom the stretch of the world’s, for it is hidden nearly entirely in darkness, and the little fragment of light could as well be the farthest star to my sight- not much light is it?

I could seize the sky and command the depths, and

I could take in my hands the horns of nature.

I could trap the sun in my eyes, and I could

Hold darkness in a bottle. Am I not being vain I my reasoning?

Who could hold the morning from springing forth from its bed, or who could deny the evening access to its house of darkness?

And I could just be one grain of sand in the Atlantic.

Cycles. Cycles of time age on my breaths, stealing them for its youthfulness or should I call it stealing? I got my breath from the world, I breathe the world, and the world gives me life and spirit. Does it then require my permission to take back the breath it gave me? Can it not without warning, swoop down and I’m no more? And I could matter less to the world, for it could forget me and leave me with untold lengths of time to live- blessing or punishment, it could care less, when nature and time each take their fair share of what’s left after the world has taken what usefulness I have and I become the shell of a shell… Not much to want is it?

My infinitesimal self in the world’s space is as minute as the vastness of my mind, for it could be my infinitesimal self in my mind. Is my mind then as vast as the world? Perhaps, perhaps not, it could care less and I live in the corner of both.

But my infinitesimal self is connected to other infinitesimal selves, and there is one large network of infinitesimal selves, much connected to span the world’s space. One grain of sand couldn’t do so much to the Atlantic, but a network of sand covers its depths, its network of sand makes up its rocks and whatever fills its depths. So yes, a grain of sand could do much for the Atlantic and my infinitesimal self could do much for the world’s space, me in a network of other infinitesimal selves…

And I breathe in sync with the world, steady patterns,

Of a single line of movement or movements in harmony to the expanding network

Of several infinitesimal selves.

The world could care less for this expanding network and it shouldn’t be a race for supremacy between the selves, or between the self and the world. As music is to the ears in different notes with steady cadence, we live in rhythm, and we could be music to the world.

My infinitesimal self makes no difference in the world’s space and other infinitesimal selves make no difference in the world’s space, but I guess that’s the system of the world, another predictability of the world. But isn’t that the way it’s designed, that on its own our infinitesimal selves should mean less? Meaning more is a quality of associations, concurrencies, agreements, and maybe disagreements as is the manner of individual selves living in one space.

My infinitesimal self in the world’s space, or the world’s space in my infinitesimal self. There could be a rhythm to this system without one negating the other, where all matter to all.

Then the song changes:

 “… and I’m one whisper among several whispers in a mountain of voices…”

Reviews

[ReneeJ]

You are a very deep person. Your work seems organized and well put together, but I cane still see the talent and passion within it. Keep writing!

[Opeyemi Jide-Ojo]

Thanks Renee :)

[Sunflowergrl]

its a masterpiece that can only emanates from a great mind

[Opeyemi Jide-Ojo]

thanks Sunflowergirl.... really appreciate it.