you can, at times, be crushed by the realization that we are all nothing, patches of empty space endowed with not more than the conscious awareness of it. a knowing that the project of life is to build oneself up into anything at all.
one can resolve to latch onto things eternal, to build in your tiny patch of void a fortress of words and ideas, a catalogue of the self, but doing so leads only to more nothing, because your patch has no volume, no area in which anything can be saved.
one can only be built up out of the impermanent. one can only love that which will be lost. but there is, at least, so much that will be lost.