The vicissitude of time, the expansiveness of space, the trauma of war, the weight of sin. When one experienced so much, was it strange to change?
Life became numb. All things became meaningless. Death seemed inconsequential.
An infinite universe filled with infinite worlds, infinite people living within. In this vast and endless existence, what weight did a single person hold?
It was difficult to not despair in the face of such grandiosity. The realization of how tiny one's existence truly was could be mind-numbing.
But even those who gave into this reality lived their daily lives without pondering on it. It was pointless to do so.
But if one looked deeper, they'd realize the correspondence between universe and man; between microcosm and macrocosm.
Despite the minuteness of a single person's existence, mankind still thrived. Why was that? Why was it that life would always find a way to exist regardless of circumstance, regardless of futility?