This blue dot, this mote of cosmic dust among billions like it,

Is the stage upon which we play out our melodramas;

Upon which we insanely overestimate the impact and importance

Of our personalities, our desires, our hopes and dreams.

The street cleaner, the store clerk, the wino on the park bench

Has a more realistic idea of his imprint on galactic history

Than does the politician, the statesman, the war hero

Who imagines that his accomplishments have some significance

In the story of the universe and to whom, though he may never be disillusioned,

The saints and sages accord much the same value as the ant

Valiantly climbing his blade of grass that he may glisten in the sunshine.

Almost every one of us humans has some grandiose fantasy

That we will somehow make our imprint in the shifting sands of time,

That our memory may be valued and honored after discorporation.

So do I, but I am letting go of it. I ask only to be conscious,

And in being so, to have an existence that might transcend

The limits of space, time, and my very limited intellect and ambition.