Time

We all end up here, forgotten, moss growing on our tombstone and weed sprouting above the dust that remains of us. Some of these graves have been here a hundred years, unvisited by their children and grandchildren who are also dead and gone, and all that they have accomplished in their tiny lives is forgotten under the weight of the immense stillness they will endure throughout the ages. I am surrounded by hundreds of people, dead, slaughtered by the ever-pressing time. Each of our lives ends in tragedy. In a hundred years after my death, I doubt very many people will remember my name unless I have accomplished something great. But what then? In two hundred, three hundred years I am but history. We have so little time to make any sort of impact on this planet, but it's just a footprint in the sand and in the end we return quickly to the dust that we struggled out of. We can never stop tragedy, or war, or devastation, or the weather or earth from crushing us. Every human being must suffer and cause tragedy. In the end whatever difference we make cannot change that. We are all so common, part of the six billion who teem on this earth and the billions uncounted who teemed on it before us. We are the greatest predators on this earth, the top of the food chain, with nothing to stop us but time and ourselves. We're a combination of ants and monkeys, unquestionably following the human structure but fools, barbarians, trying to make sense of what has no sense without us. Does all of this make sense? Must we package up the Universe so it can fit into our tiny little heads? It has been here billions of years before us and will be here billions of year after our earth has crashed into the sun. It extends unending, billions of years of our life time in every direction without end, and yet so many of us claim to understand it when we haven't even seen one percent of it all. Most of us haven't even seen one percent of our own planet. We are just ants on a rock.
Yet the sun is shining bright and hot for the first time in days. The light makes everything so vibrant. The sky is deep. unending blue and when you look at it you can see that it goes on and on forever. The clouds swirl around in it like smoke while our planes have etched long white paths through it. The ground beneath me is covered in moss, weeds, pebbles and wearing tombstones. On these old white marble stones the people who loved these men have tried to etch some meaning to their deaths. They wrote verse of a hope that maybe they are not dead after all, that they are out there somewhere with the one who made us all, still thinking and feeling and missing us, and that some day they will again breath and stand again. They have put markings to signify the days that these people walked on the earth; some of those are worn away into nothing in the stone.