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  • Writer's pictureMathilde Fongen

In Tininess I Am a Giant

Updated: Aug 1, 2019

I've been thinking about significance lately and a few days ago, I got a message from a friend. She wrote "The world's a huge place. We are just a tiny voice [...] but we're allowed to have joy, and that's really all we can do, to be our most joyous selves so that others can become happy, too." Reading this, I realised that writing brings me joy and that's really all that matters. Playing music brings me joy, and that's all that matters. And maybe it can bring other people joy too, but I think I need to bring me joy first.

I love star gazing and I find Astronomy fascinating, regardless of how little I know about it. Sitting on a plane, looking down on the tiny houses and the tiny cars zooming along tiny roads below, makes me feel at ease. These things boldly underline my tininess in the grand scheme of things and it's something that should throw my anxiety levels completely out of whack, but no. Having my tininess highlighted in blinding neon yellow makes me even more aware of how massive I am. To the world, I am insignificant, but to me I am the most important thing. Without me, there is no me. Well duh.

I'm also important to others, who in turn are important to me. They too are tiny humans, only we see each other up close, so to us we are giants. That goes for this blog too, I suppose. It's mine, so even if it's just another tiny speck on the blogosphere (do people still use that word?), to me it's the one that matters the most. And my music, hidden away in the masses of music that exists. To me those songs are on top of the playlist. There are songs that only I can write and stories only I can tell and creating them brings me a joy that's beyond what I can manage to describe in this blogpost. That joy is vital. And it's massive.

So if we focus on the joy these creative endeavours bring us instead of the crippling anxiety that comes hand in hand with that joy, we don't risk not writing that story or singing that song or posting that poem because of everything else that exists in the world or the thought that it might not be good enough. That joy is reason enough to just get on with it, and we never know who that joy might spread to.

In our insignificance, we are important and in our tininess we are giants.

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