When you die you will leave behind nothing that will not also perish. What few memories and mementos remain proclaiming you will only accelerate their decomposition in your absence. You are not the point of the universe. You are not its pinnacle or its spectacle; you are a single breath. You are one inevitable interplay of all that makes up the cosmos and you are not important. You will not be counted anymore than you will count up your own breaths.
You are, though—through no choice of your own—participating in something vital, if anything can be called vital at all: you are the host of billions of molecules playing together like children, defining new possibilities.
Before there were stars, hydrogens intermingled in darkness; before there were planets, giants of ice and solid rock tumbled into one another in space; before there was life, stars sick with energy spewed themselves into loneliness; and before the next grand unimaginable cosmic expression—before the next breath—there was you and I.
If all we have is each other, it seems only proper that we ask one another permission when sharing or using the other's property.
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