But then, who am I but a miniscule speck of dust? How is my existence more significant than the flap of a butterfly's wings? That thought comforts me at times.
I need to journal this, so that tomorrow, when enough time has passed for my words to become precious as history, and be romanticized beyond its actual worth, this darkness might infect another mind, and seek the same answers. Because these questions are bigger than you or me.