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As I type this, a drop of water is sliding down a stalactite. Before it falls from the tip of the stalactite, it will leave behind a tiny trace of the minerals it carries. It will fall onto a similar cone rising from the floor and shed a few more molecules of minerals before it sinks into the ground.

As I sit here, some continents are slowly drifting away from each other. Others are sliding into each other, creating slow-motion accordion-fold mountains.

As I think of the next word to type, heated magma is slowly blossoming upwards while cooling magma is slowly sinking down towards the earth's core.

I am like a fly, and my buzzing is disgusting compared to these ancient, timeless actions. I will breed, grow old, and die before the stalactite and the stalagmite meet, before the mountains rise, before the cooled magma sinks low enough to become molten once more. This should depress me, but it doesn't. It feels like beauty instead.