Musings of an Author

Nothing.

It is nothing. Neither male nor female, without race, without name. It merely is.

It could watch the world burn, and be unaffected.

Perhaps it would feel, as any person might, at the sight of loss before it. But the people dying before it, each with their own loves and hopes, none are connected to it. So it should feel nothing.

When the world has burned, it will feel peace. It will be as silent then as it was when the others were alive, except now, the silence brings no disappointment. It should be silent, because there is no one but it. The silence is good.

It does not feel joy, like the others did. Joy is just an emotion somewhat unlike sadness. It is a degree on a scale, not sad, but not anything else. To say indifferent would imply that nothing is felt, but that is also untrue. So, it calls this joy, in order to feel more like the others that ignored it. But it makes no difference to anyone. It can call it what it likes.

It had dreams once. Dreams of belonging. It wanted to be like the others, though it was unwanted by them. When it did not realize it was unwanted, it did what it could, to try to be one of them. It changed itself in every way, bent itself into every shape, but was laughed at every time. There was no room for it in the world.

Someday, it will cease to exist. Though others will continue, it will not. It will bury itself in the weight of its own shame, until it suffocates. It dies. And the others will continue. They will always continue. It will be forgotten.

That is all.