We all look upon ourselves in some distaste.
We all see our own small cosmetic flaws,
Fleeting imperfections that nag at us so.
And then we all see ourselves as a main character in some,
Ill conceived, and open ended plot.
And yet, here we stand,
Judging even ourselves,
And most cruelly of all, others,
Against aspects that can never be controlled,
Against things that have no higher authority.

But, if one were to think in a stronger depth what are,
And who, and why,
We should see no answer.
Nor is there a way we could.
For all of us are smaller than the smallest atom,
Caught in the breath of a small child,
In compare to this one universe in which we live,
And this one dimension in which we exist,
And in this reality in which we perceive.
And all of those are like a passing person,
No two twins,
And yet some so closely alike,
And yet each so separate.

And in all generosity,
We are nothing, an insignificant tiny spec,
Living in an insignificant tiny spec.

But each of us most not despair in this truth,
For a truth it is,
A fact we must all come to terms with in our own time,
At one point or other,
As best suits our readiness.
And yet, even then we think too much of the unimportant things,
Such as looks, and actions,
When each of us haven’t really the time,
Nor the strength,
Nor the need,
And, against all that is and how small we all are,
Is it truly worth the pain,
And suffering,
Over nothing at all?