Each of our mornings

Time may be, at the end of the day, just a long corridor immobilized in the matter, a train with no head or tail. The matter is slower than our humble steps. We run, dance, frolic, having no echoes but this silence higher than our natures, more immense than our hopes, just as profound as our ignorance.

What to hold on to our little joys? The walls are smooth, our destiny is silent like a divine statue. We are a herd, designed to graze among other species. The hand that would have created us will also be the one that will obliterate us. The forces that move within us will mingle in a day or a million years with the appetites of some cosmic union.

What’s the point of living then? Nothing could be simpler, because that’s the way it is. There is no reason to expect better days, there is no reason to fear worse. Each of our mornings is meant to be the awakening of our souls. On the other side of the planet, fireflies also awaken; we are, for a day, their antennas so that they do not forget to go back to sleep. They will be ours when the time comes. On the other side of the universe, which may simply be behind our backs, our ancestors and offspring whisper in quantum labyrinths.

The train never leaves, the doors remain wide open. We are the blood of the universe.