But a borrower

This borrowed breath of mine, so momentary. This borrowed Earth I walk, easily resowed. This big, big world I walk in full saturation, but a stroke in a bigger picture. I have never needed to be important, but still I wonder: what note will this borrowed breath add to a chorus of sounds already so drenched in opacity?

I don’t mind being small or meek. That is as humbly interwoven into my being as stardust. Perhaps it’s even rather exciting to know that I’m but a minnow in this grand pond. I don’t mind filling a small life with big wondrous things, even knowing they will evaporate the moment this borrowed breath is reclaimed.

I need not be remembered in statues or written into history. I don’t demand some kind of flag to plant on my borrowed Earth. Wonderful things come from very small seeds and I am content to be one of them. But sometimes, as I contend against the monsters of my night, I feel a despondence in knowing that perhaps it will all be for naught. I muse, in surrender, that my battles neither advance nor impress upon this little time I occupy. 

I know that I will return my borrowed breath and return to the borrowed Earth. I long neither to reform it or lay claim to it. I know that I am but a note in a symphony. And sometimes I wonder if you can even hear me, truly and clearly, or if I am always drowned out.

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