I am nothing, indeed.
In front of the mountains and in front of the oceans that I’ve seen, I am nothing.
The immensity of my soul, however, can conquer in some of the days, the depths of the skies and water.
But I am nothing, really, because I can not put into words, just how much I see and feel.
I am so insignificant in my “big talks” and my elevated thinking.
I am nothing, really, when I have hopes that my words or my unrefined paintings will ever matter or that they will ever change anyone or any place or heart.
I am nothing, for most people these days, see how much you earn or what name you carry.
They will not ask me what I love, but how much I’m worth.
Then, I am really worth nothing.
And many, may see me as nothing or too weak because I tear when the violins play in the background of our talks or when the wind waves the trees.
I may be, really, nothing or so little to them.
But my battles have been many and through them all, I stand as nothing in front of people, but as, maybe, something in front of God.
Even if I am nothing, I am a nothing with honorable thoughts and I have kept my sensibility to art, to poetry, to good music.
How will I explain then, to a vain fool, just what it means to be so greatful for so little or even for nothing?
Or, maybe, I should not explain at all?