Inconsequential

Reading time: 1 min

Around midnight last night, as I was heading to bed, I noticed the sky was still light. Not all of it, just the small portion chasing the sun. The sky was clear, and I stood there in our back bedroom admiring nature with a silent awe. I slowly shifted my gaze upwards from the daylight blue, through turquoise, towards the inky blue black and the stars.

If I was filming this as a scene from a movie, the camera would start behind me, following me into the room and over to the window. It would hover behind me, showing my reflection in the glass, before slowing starting to move in and impercetibly it would shift to become my ‘vision’. It would follow my line of sight as it moved up from the garden to the sky, pausing at the horizon to marvel at the stillness of the light, before slowly tracing upwards to the heavens.

Then, just as the screen is filled with black and as the first pinpoints of light reach us from the depths of space, a distinct bright light will zip across the view, burning a flickering trail, the briefest of moments.

A quiet monologue will begin, sombre and with little emotion.

As the camera pans around the night sky it will discuss the fragility of life, the glimpse we get of it, and how we too will soon burn out and disappear.

“For we are a speck, our energy burns bright then dims quickly almost as soon as it is viewed.”

How inconsequential we are, these odd skeletons of being. Such grandeur and importance we place on ourselves, and for little reason.