The Futility of It All

In the beginning, there was only a word.  But there was nobody to hear the word.  So the word reverberated in empty space.

The word was followed by other words.  Soon, the entire spacetime continuum was filled with words.  But alas, there were only particles.

Words in a vacuum are useless.

Yet somehow, those words still persevered.

The particles begat bigger particles.  And they begat atoms.  The atoms begat other atoms.  Those atoms begat molecules.  And those molecules continued to grow and proliferate.

Until finally, the Universe was bigger than fathomable even to the most omniscient of beings.

But the words were still null and void.

For billions and billions of years, there was no one to hear words.  Hell, I'm not even sure who was speaking those words.  But I do have faith that those words were there.  To the best of my recollection, words have always existed.

And with those words, my world has been circumscribed.

In the end, there are too many words.

And 99.9% of those words still are uttered in vain.

If silence is the canvas and perception is my easel,
my masterpiece is a cacophonous Jackson Pollock turgid philippic
about the futility of it all.