We are the nobodies, the statistically insignificant never-weres, small pebbles relegated to the seabed of the world’s great expanse. We’ve no mountains to our names, accomplished no great achievements to be gloriously trumpeted in the annals of history. The unwritten epitaph upon our sodded-over mass grave seems destined: Here lie the unknown ones. They made no difference. Let them never be remembered.

But we’ve no such fate.

We are the butterflies that silently roar, growling with a sound of thunder. We pound the pavement, lay foundations, move ever-forward with passion stoking our hearts’ driving fires. The boots of society seem fit to make us the downtrodden, but we are the grass that grows and carpets the hillsides, emerald green and made of the sun. Billions of blades.

Bricks in the wall, they cry, for they do not see. Bricks, no. Tiles in the mosaic, yes, for there is a picture to be painted as we align ourselves with no other force than shared love, the blind ambition to put forth into the universe that which begs to break free from the ribbed cage of mortality. What is mine is yours, and yours, mine. Ours. This is the glue that binds, active, alive, firm against the solvents they will surely throw.

Alone, we are nothing. Together, we are everything.