Nothing

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?

Isabela

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