“High in the North in a land called Svithjod there is a mountain. It is a hundred miles long and a hundred miles high and once every thousand years a little bird comes to this mountain to sharpen its beak. When the mountain has thus been worn away a single day of eternity will have passed.”
― Hendrik Willem Van Loon, The Story of Mankind
That little bird is our lives. Dwarfed by the magnificence of time.
We are small and insignificant. Not individual, not a group, nor a race. Not a society, a species or a thought from God. We are nothing.
The dinosaurs, the mammoths, the pharaohs, the sultans and kings, the inventors, the thinkers and philosophers, the builders, the masters and slaves, the writers, the historians, the celebrities, the murderers, the saints and the despots. You and me. Nothing.
What will you do with this information?
Our floating houses on molten granite
Our liquid planet, it is a home for us all
I’m firmly planted, my earth is solid
I feel a presence but there is nothing at all
I wanted something, down here is something
It’s really something but there is nothing at all
‘Slowly Melting’ by Nomeansno