What if the Universe has no answer for me?
I look at the stars and wonder whether we need to be important to mean something.
Narration generated with a synthetic voice.
There are evenings when the sky calms me. And there are evenings when that same sky makes me feel terribly small. The stars have not changed. I have.
I imagine distances I cannot truly grasp. I say the words, but my mind returns to things it knows: the road home, someone’s hand, the light in a room.
I would like there to be an answer written somewhere in that darkness. To know that I am here for a reason I will come to understand. But my wish is not evidence. I can hope without pretending to know.
If the Universe has no answer for me, does that mean my question does not matter?
I think of someone I once helped. As far as the sky was concerned, probably nothing happened. For that person, on that day, something did. Perhaps the measure of a life does not have to be the size of the sky.
I have not solved the mystery. Nor do I think I can contain it in a sentence. But I turn away from the window thinking that tomorrow I could be more attentive to someone.
The stars remain there. The question remains here.
Now stay with yourself for a moment.
What do you think?
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