O mountains, here we are; we have come and pressed ourselves against you, reaching all the way to your bosom. O great tree, does human misery mean anything to you? With your proud and dignified bearing, you paid no attention to humanity, even though your stem comes from your body and your breath from your breath. They call us civilization; our condition can be understood from our enormous buildings. We are large, pale, shameless, and just as lonely. The closer we came to one another, the farther apart we became; the more we gathered together, the more continuously we were afraid. This is who we are: as warm as concrete, temporary. You knew us correctly: destroyers. But everyone does what they do to themselves; perhaps that is why you were patient with us. Strange humans who have abandoned their breath, brushed aside what is permanent, burned and destroyed; the mountains, plains, and waters are complaining, while the skies admire your bearing! You, mighty mountain, you, great water, you, blessed air—forgive us. We are sorry. Forgive us, pardon us; repeat yourself, continue, and go on being what we have failed to be: not human.
Our legacy reaches back to the first eaters. The ambition we inherited from our ancestors keeps us alive. Our ancestors would not have multiplied if they had not become harsh toward others. Our ideas would not have multiplied if they had not paid attention to others. Our lineage is the desire in our ancestor’s eyes. And this is what will destroy life: because it is supposed to be so, because humanity is supposed to disappear. Until four eyes, two mouths, and one ear change, we will look too much at others, speak too much, and listen too little. As long as we count only those who resemble us as belonging to us, we will continue to be the other.
Our troubles will not continue, even though birth and death continue endlessly. Pain disappears for those who disappear. The individual makes mistakes; the family’s average is more correct. The family makes a mistake, the neighborhood is more correct; the neighborhood makes a mistake, the city is more correct; the city makes a mistake, society, the species, and the planet are more careful. Perhaps the planet shifts a few centimeters from its orbit of its own accord. Even a star does. But within the galaxy, it means nothing; and within the universe, the galaxy itself means nothing. What can cells possibly know about what they are inside? Does stealing make one wealthy? Why is wealth relinquished simply because one does not desire it?
I did not come into the world, even if I pretend that I did. I will not leave, even if they say that I will. They call me “you,” but I contain billions of years within me. Which part of me belongs to me, and which part belongs to my ancestors? I do not know. This much is certain: the body is not mine, and neither are the words; even their meanings were given to me. Perhaps I do not exist. Who exists, then? What exists when I do not? Others exist for a little while longer. Other beings too, for only a somewhat longer while. Life continues for much, much longer. And then even the ending will end.
