It’s no secret that I’m a great fan of Lovecraft. Not of his repellent racial views, but for his sense of scale, for his ability to conceive of how dwarfed we are by the cosmic immensities that surround us. I like to think that in our discovery of the cosmic web of superclusters, we have uncovered just the tiniest part of the nervous system of God, whether or not that being is Azathoth or Yaweh or something unknowable and undreamed of by mortal hierophants.
The true scale of the universe becomes even more daunting when you consider the possibility of parallel realities, each one brimming with superclusters or the local equivalent.
We are specks of dust in the face of eternity. Our lifespans are less than eyeblinks. Nothing we do will affect or alter the cosmos in any way. In the grand scheme of things, quite literally not a single thing we do matters.
And yet, we are that part of the universe that looks out upon itself and struggles to understand. We carry worlds within us as well as study the worlds without. We create our own meaning in a meaningless universe, and so everything we do matters. Every touch, every kiss, every kind word.
In a reality in which we are less than nothing, they are beyond price.