Haven’t we already been told that we are dust and that we will return, with our last breath, to the sandy ocean of little things? I had always found it difficult to clean everything, erase the traces. Now I notice all the matter left behind: the onion peels destined for compost, the coffee beans that escape from the mill, the dough stuck on the bowl that will not become bread. The matter does not seem more aware of its future than that. It is, of course, my convoluted brain that notes this supposed destiny. It immediately comes to mind the daily deaths of the pandemic, the multiple pleasures that dissolve in asynchronous wombs or inside handkerchiefs or animals of circumstance. I could also include the unnecessary laughter, the acts launched into the void, the time wasted doing nothing or doing everything wrong. However, I should not forget the wealth of our inventions, the obstinate strength of our will to live, the arts, the songs, the cries of mothers, children, and poets. Nor should we overlook the legions of species, the insects and bacteria, the turbulent broth of Creation, this great Unknown to whom we devote unbounded respect and disinterest.
Nothing is lost, it seems. Nothing is created either?
We are infinitesimal grains, and it is from the accumulation of our existences that the ocean of our manifestations swells. The strange atoms that make up the universe are agglutinated in us, in them, in these things. The miracle comes from this chaos, which devours itself with healthy and diabolical pleasure.
There is nothing we can do about it. It is undoubtedly the best hope we can provide to continue this adventure that escapes us.