I’ve come to accept that I mean absolutely nothing compared to the inconceivable vastness of life on Earth, even less, relative to the life of the Earth itself, of our star, our galaxy, and so on. As a part of this greater system, I am merely borrowing a few particles from the universe (or multiverse or whatever it is that exists beyond our little corner of reality) for a nearly incalculably brief period of time, and at the end of that period they’ll be returned.

There’s something beautiful in the acceptance of this enormous insignificance, the practical nonexistence that we all are. Our lives have less importance in the grand scheme than a single molecule of nitrogen does to me, inhaled into my lung only to be expelled a second later.

The universe is estimated to be about 13.75 billion years old. I’m 18. I haven’t even been alive for 600 million seconds yet. So the universe has been around for 764 million times longer than I’ve been in it, and I’ve been alive for 600 million times longer than I had that nitrogen in my lung.

How can we pretend that anything matters enough to get upset over it?