Once the first piece of prose had been etched into a stone somewhere, humanity as it was born into that imagination, was faced immediately with the inevitable impossibility of knowing itself. What is this consiousness? How detestable it does seem! What cosmic purpose could is possibly have!? And a bird does crow above one's head, and useless rejuvenating rain does pour from the sky, and we are but atoms to this planet; tiny and insignificant. Then what of the ball this imagination has sprung up on? Is it not an electron zooming around the nucleus star? Is not the star a mere molecule burning into time like the countless other stars in this galaxy, and the galaxy merely an atom to the countless other galaxies?
We are composed of infinity, how could we ever know ourselves? I am trapped somewhere on a plane, and all I perceive is composed of my perceptions. With my eyes, I see the composition of this atom Earth. But my eyes are made of atoms, and electrons do zoom around their nucleus, and they are indeed composed of quarks. Well what is a quark made up of?
All the universe is but a quark or worst of all something far smaller; and I a mere connection of some entity we call energy bursting towards some reaction. When I imagine an atom, I see it as something without breath and thought, lifeless and un-imagining; something without poetry and music. And musing over calculus, and how an endless equation could represent an endless wavelength, and how an endless wavelength might just contain the notes of some infinite song: From quark to quark. From snowy medieval village to alien landscape. From the rise to the fall of waves on a star lit beach. From Mozart to Nietzsche. From cave drawing to Rembrandt. And it, under microscope, consisting deep down of all of these things and infinitely more, whispering a message of identity we are unable, in our equally giant and minuscule minds, to identify with.