You Realize

You realize that you mean very little.

You realize that your heartbeat is only a tiny part of the collective Pulse.

You realize that you could vanish tomorrow, and only the trees outside your bedroom window would notice that the light no longer flickers on and off. 

You realize that you are made of borrowed atoms, that you are composite and connected infinitely to a chain of beings.

You realize that nothing that you touch will last very much longer than you, except the hard hard crust of this turning world.

You realize that if you stand in one place for a very long time in completesilence, it is as if you are simply a part of the wallpaper.

You realize that no one really cares who you are or why you choose to keep walking, and that it is expected of you that you will keep quiet and create.

You realize that you have a duty to the cosmos to keep writing, that you are not designing poetry and prose out of enjoyment, but out of obligation.

You realize that you mean more than you thought.

You realize that your work means the universe.
You realize that you will slowly vanish, but your ink will remain, and that someone somewhere will feel something because of a single word you wrote.

You realize that you were born to write something that lasts forever.