Something Inhuman
I see something that doesn’t see me.
To call its indifference cold would be to turn the lens around, to impose my own meanings. It simply is.
A mountain doesn't care whether you climb it. The ocean doesn't care whether you drown in it. The stars don't care whether humanity exists.
Camus said, “At the heart of all beauty lies something inhuman.”
When I strip it all away, the desperate need for meaning and purpose, what is it that I find beautiful? Could it be the emptiness itself? Perhaps words are just poor substitutes.