I hate flying. Not the flying itself, but the logistics of it: flying means going through airports, waits at security if not at the gate itself, having to take your electronics out or your shoes off, and host of other little inconveniences that just suck the energy out of you. Finally, by the time you’re on the plane, you’re just about ready to nod off, but that would mean missing the best part because being in an airplane and looking out during the take-off or landing is quite incredible when you stop to think about it. I always take the window seat if I can help it: still, like a little kid, I’m fascinated watching the world get so much smaller to the point where the hustle and bustle of ordinary life begins to look like God himself is playing with toy cars and tiny Lego figures. But even that becomes imperceptible as you rise above the cloud layer and can’t see the signs of life at all. The world is big, and everything else is so much bigger than that.

All my life, and its little happenings are so far away now. Not only that, but it’s incredible to think that for every tiny dot you see moving there is somebody else—perhaps multiple somebodies—with lives just as big and complicated as your own. Our lives on this planet are not only tiny but complex even in their tiny-ness, and that’s not to say anything about how complex everything itself is. What to make of my problems in such a moment? Do they even matter? Do I matter? Who am I in this sea of individuality, soaring through the sky like some ancient Greek god, with only the god of everything to guide our aircraft through the turbulence in which it finds itself. At the moment, the world seems so impersonal, so unforgiving, so small and pointless because if I think this is a lot, then imagine what it would be like to see everything, everywhere, all at once. How, in such circumstances, could I possibly make sense of my own life and its apparent purposelessness?

Of course, I didn’t leave myself behind: the world still feels very personal to me, just as it is to all the miniature people down below. My life—both its curses and blessings—are still there. It matters to me, even though it looks like it doesn’t matter too much in the grand scheme of things, but perhaps it matters more in that context than I think it does. Would I deign to suggest that the lives of all those tiny dots below me didn’t matter? Not at all. We are often moved by the experiences of other people, so why should we be so tempted to remain indifferent towards our own? Perhaps we shouldn’t.

What I have said thus far is just an observation of mine. I’ve had similar thoughts on other occasions, though not quite as poignant. I have, for example, had similar feelings when I see all the Christmas trees in people’s apartments when I walk around the city. There are reminders everywhere you look at how vast the world is. It’s easy to feel small in a city so big, but this is not to denigrate anybody’s experiences. Quite the contrary: I think, if there is a point to anything I’ve said, it’s simply that you’re not alone. And yes, it’s true: the world is not all about you. But just as the world around you matters, you matter precisely because you’re a part of it. I might be small. We might even pass by each other on the street without any “hello” or recognition of one another. However, we’re not so far apart that we can’t relate to one another. One dot on its own might not look like much, but put so many dots together, and you arrive at something quite extraordinary which is, of course, an important part of what it means to be human.