Did I fail to serve the purpose for which I was born? Then forgive me for meddling with your will. You are the supreme creator and know the purpose of all the beginnings--of me, this planet and all the willing or indifferent objects of the cosmos that are acting in the drama written by your supreme will. But the play is getting more and more absurd day by day. For we are the the supreme destructor and are interfering with your original plot. But did you conceive any original plot, any final destiny? Or, the journey that every individual chooses is your sole pleasure?
Anyway. My meddling with your design, to cut a long story short, should not impact the big game at all. The show will go on, even if it seems meaningless to us, the lesser mortals.
Today I feel too tired, automated, unentertaining, confused of my next move. I needed a solid rock to lean on, to cover myself behind. What I am getting instead are pebbles--rigid but restless under my shoes and which are incapable of protecting but keen to jump to my fist to hurt others.
I am burning without being reduced to ashes. Tell me, how did you create this beautiful and mundane mess out of the big bang? Were there any ash or smoke? Can I burn myself fully and create something beautiful?
I am a man: little do I last
and the night is enormous.
But I look up:
the stars write.
Unknowing I understand:
I too am written,
and at this very moment
someone spells me out.
Brotherhood (Homage to Claudius Ptolemy)
by Octavio Paz
