i am going to tell you a story.
but first, you need to look up–
no, further. further. further.
beyond the ceiling, beyond the
buildings, beyond everything
you know. eject yourself from
your body and look up
until you can see the stars for
what they are–jewels embedded
in blue velvet, stitched there by
some god’s hand, or orbs of
destroying themselves. let’s just
admit it here–we do not know
what they are, the things
we call the stars. does it matter?
they decorate the night. they
sing me lullabies when i cannot
sleep–they will for you, too,
if you promise to listen to them.
listen to me, too–you need to feel
the universe. feel all the atoms
moving around you, in you, over
you–your hands, the sun, all the
things that have made you hide.
feel them. they are nothing.
feel yourself. you are nothing.
feel the universe. the universe
is nothing. dead or alive, infinite
or creeping towards an ending–
listen to me. stars still implode
when you’re crying. the earth
doesn’t stop its motion, all
the galaxies keep running
further and further away from
us. i know fear, and loneliness,
and the end of the world–and
you do, too. but listen to me.
andromeda doesn’t care that you
throw your voice into the night.
cassiopeia still blinks in the
sky, even when everything you know
on this tiny, wet rock of a planet is
breaking itself apart–the universe
will mould all those atoms into
something new. listen to me and
everything will listen to you. you
are part of this existence, right down
to the quarks that make up your
fidgeting fingers and the electrons
that buzz in your eyes. the night sky
will swallow you up when you’re
looking for somewhere to sleep,
if you let it. you don’t need to be
afraid. you don’t need to be lonely.
you are okay. you are okay. you
are okay because the universe
stands still, with its arms open