I am small, a diminutive force of perpetual energy, slipping through the gradients of time—sediments and silt smooth, encrust, and contour against all in its path, including me. I am made of the earth, but I do not belong to it, as much as the might of its elements erode into the chemical composition of my existence, it cannot breakdown the phenomenal pattern of my enzymatic nature.
I am universal.
This planet is my womb, the confluence of our dynamism progresses the very nature of my destiny, a footprint in galactic sands, vanished but possible, somewhere—always. The big bang was big, but not by macrocosmic entropy, but by microcosmic volatility.
I am small.
I am life.