text: As I walk on the way to work today I see a small flower poking up through the sidewalk. For no other reason than a brooding feeling I can’t define, I pluck it from it’s hard-fought home and I begin to reflect on my knowledge of its nature. I know it is a complex machine formed of smaller, much more complex machines known as cells. I know there are different kinds of cells, performing different tasks and forming the different tissues and organs within the plant. I know all of those different cells form from a single cell, a seed, with a single genome, and that the cell is able to form into all those other types of cell by affecting its epigenome, turning genes on and off. And as all of this is carried out with absolute precision by small molecular machines within and without the tiny cells, I know I go to work everyday. I sit down at a desk, or stand behind a cash register, or whatever else, and I complete some repetitive, meaningless task everyday. I consider how I am simply another one of those molecules, completing a simple task, in the larger cell of a business, in the larger tissue of a corporation, in the larger organ of an industry, in the larger system of a country, in the larger organism of humanity. I think about those molecules. How they are built from atoms, which are built of smaller units of positive and negative charge, which are built by even smaller units I don’t know about, but I know there are other people who do. And I know that those people still go to work every day, and work on some slightly more complicated task that some people see as meaningful, and if they are good they might get rewards for giving people like me things to think about on the way to work. I think about those particles I don’t know about, and the natural laws that dictate their actions, and I consider how no matter what those laws may be, they are ultimately arbitrary, and I understand that all of reality is random and impossible, and yet still it impossibly exists. And I know that in spite of my understanding this, I will still go to work tomorrow, and the next day, and chase small, unfulfilling improvements to my quality of life until I die, and I think of how that too seems impossible. I realize that many people complete this impossible task everyday, and wonder how they do it. I know that some people, who are uninformed or confused, are actually able to find meaning in this, and I know they are better off for it, though I wouldn’t trade places now that I know. I ponder how none of this makes sense or has any meaning and I know the only reason I continue this pattern is because I’m afraid of the alternative. I pluck a petal off the flower and watch it fall. I decide that isn’t enough. I pull two more. That’s good, any more would be too many. I drop the flower and feel a little satisfied over leaving my mark on it, and I think about how there are probably distinct biological and neurological reasons that I feel this way, and how all my thoughts and feelings are the result of all those tiny machines moving about in my brain and how it’s all ultimately meaningless. I check my watch and realize I’m going to be late to work again, and I know that I ought to care more, but I also know I can’t.