Singularity

Suppose, if you will,
that three worlds intersect,
so that greens and blues diverge
at a tiny, nonexistent dot.
Now put a rock upon that point,
and then atop it, some fine day,
place an even smaller speck,
whom we'll call No One Insignificant.

No One lives in Singularity,
which at once is and isn't ―
a paradoxical limbo

of existential gestalt.
What, when, and where is to be,
which surely begs the question:
If one is somewhere and nowhere,
does one be, or does one not?

    If my feet tread the ground,
    it does not seem to notice.
    Though I cry out to the heavens,
    the sky does not know my voice.
    I look down at the water,
    and there is only my reflection,
    who knows nothing of my loneliness,
    for every tear disappears.
    I am intangible, infinitesimal,
    inconsequential, invisible.
    In the absence of a witness,
    how can I prove I live at all?

This situation is nonsense.

What is the meaning of one?
Ill-posed means no answer.
What, then, of our friend?

Nature tells us through science
that we are all largely nothing ,

that the bits which compose us

are never truly anywhere.
How can we rightly conclude
that we are nothing like No One?
Perhaps we should wonder
if we touch what we touch.

Earth, air, and water
diverge at a rock.
No One has the answer.
How incredibly ironic:

    A mournful song fills the breeze,
    and storm clouds gather to listen.
    Tiny beings taste sorrow's salt,
    as shock waves rend their world asunder.
    Singularity keeps the solitude
    of No One Insignificant.
    A grassy meadow greets a footfall,
    and the Earth moves just slightly.