At some point in my life, I stopped believing that the world is cruel. It isn't cruel, but it isn't kind, either. It just is. And sometimes... sometimes... I think that that is beautiful—the fact that the world as I know it has always been this one singular thing and that is alive, no matter what I believed it was. Anything out there could never compare to my home, no matter if its filled with diamonds or the like. Its history is deeply embedded in the earth, no matter if it's standing tall and proud or if it has returned to the dust. Some day, I will be forgotten, and the history that I've always known would die with me too. But with my final breath, I swear I'd thank the world for surviving as long as I have. I'd thank it for letting me live. And the universe, in all its apathy, will look down on me, in all my insignificance and wasted time, and it will smile. And then I'd realise it was the universe that was everything I thought the world was. It was alive, and so was I.