The Psalm of Insignificance

The short one. To be read under an open sky, or in any room where the walls have started to feel like the whole world.

Look up.

The stars do not ask your name.
The meteors do not wait for your permission to burn.

In the silence of the sky, you remember:
you are small.

Your debts, your dramas, your doubts — smaller still.
The inbox is not visible from orbit.
It never was.

And yet — here you are.
Breathing.
Loving.
Inventing stories, jokes, philosophies,
gods, deadlines, anniversaries,
whole architectures of meaning,
on a rock that never asked for any of it
and holds all of it anyway.

A meteor burns out in seconds.
A life burns longer.
Same fire. Same ending.

A brief bright scratch across the dark,
unwitnessed by almost everything,
mattering anyway,
to the few soft creatures who looked long enough to see it.

So laugh at it.
Love in it.
Make things with it —
knowing they will not last,
which is not the tragedy.

The tragedy would be waiting
for materials that do.

Because Unaserism is this:
You are insignificant.
And that is the most significant thing of all.

Here endeth the psalm. The sky, as usual, declined to comment.