Insignificant

There is a piece of paper hanging on the wall next to my desk, that to most, is imperceptible.   The words on this piece of paper were written by my son when he was six years old.  It reads: I love you by Paul to Mommy.   This tattered piece of paper is a masterpiece.

There is a song playing in my ear with a catchy beat and a beautiful voice singing words that weigh a ton.

There is a tree near to where I am standing, blowing around aimlessly in the wind.  The tree is in the middle of a transformation.  Some of the leaves are different shades of the same color, some a different color all together, unsure what colors should be.

There is me, typing letters on a keyboard.  Letters forming words that are insignificant.  There is no rhyme or reason for this post, no big reveal at the end.  Just words.