Infinite Despair

We were once in awe of infinite possibility. We would be the inventors, the doctors, the space explorers, the President.

Our timeline existed independently. History was purely for context. The future was only for dreaming of.

But all whimsical fantasies are struck down by mundane realities.

How does it feel to be a speck of dust? A statistic, a computer bit moving around with the other god-knows-how-many-billion. Irrelevant, unimportant, and, mostly, exceptionally ordinary.

Welcome to the tremendous awakening of existential loneliness. This is infinite oblivion, and with it, infinite despair.

It turns out even specks of dust miss being a kid.