My own nothingness
It takes a strong man to be weak. It takes a strong man to stand weakly and unwaveringly for what is known by his fellows to be wrong. It takes a strong man to be weak and stand for what is immature, meek, shy, and old. It takes a strong man—if he has no hand of God to lean on, no cosmic religion, no absolute science or knowledge. If he knows he will not be proved right in the end, will not be enshrined for his stand, nor his philosophy enshrined.
It takes a strong man to make a stand for weak thinking that lies on a small weak path to be overgrown and forgotten, lost in time. To take a stand for which he will receive no meaning. To know that obscurity and eternal absence is all that awaits. That there will be no eternal life and no eternal fame. To be lost among men and among men to come.
For strong-minded men it may be easy—they goad it over the world like a king, forcing it to verify them, at least in their own minds to verify them. But to be weak is to know that you will never be verified, your beliefs never borne out, never legitimized. You have no meaning among men, no meaning among men to come.
It takes a strong man. Yet it is always the weak men like me who believe in the weak things. It is always flowers that believe in flowers.
A strange mind I have, that it sees its own nothingness. It doesn't quite know what to make of it.
