The illusion of futility.

An acquaintance of mine and I discussed, rather by accident, the futility of living. Granted the conversation was not nearly as grim as the subject and syntax would invite it to be, but that is neither here nor there. He mentioned something that was particularly interesting which I shall paraphrase (in a more flowery way of course); despite the futility of living and exertion, the end result to which we all render contributions to, whether willingly or otherwise, is entropy. Death itself contributes to the slow disentanglement of the universal fabric, and this got me to thinking that every action we take is a sure conductor to the eventual disarray of all things.

What a horrifying truth it is that every expiration, the triviality of every stroke my fingers dare to cast, the dimensional articulation my body is limited to, such a weak and paltry materiality could ever hope to disturb the universe. Perhaps even more marvelous is the beauty this inherits as it coyly slips between our oblivious hands, the truth hidden within a truth, how tragically and how fascinating does it hide its wonders in plain view, and how envious I am of the learned astronomer as he gazes attentively and with perfect silence, he hears the atoms tell of our secret lives.