We Are The Universe

Born a supernova, among the stars, no wonder we spend our lives looking up.

Except, the place we were born is no more.

We, me, you, everyone you know, were once atoms fusing to another, releasing energy and light.

Our light may very likely have sustained life to the planets we hosted. They got some of our warmth to sustain themselves, but we stayed tucked within our star, waiting for our moment to explode.

For the photos that didn’t hit our neighbouring planets, they travelled to neighbouring stars. Heck, we may well have stirred the imagination of aliens on other planets the moment our light hit their retinas. We told stories and melted hearts before our very solar system was even born.

Today, When we look up at the stars, we are looking at the birthplaces of future generations of universe dwellers.

On this note, let’s keep in mind our fellow souls trapped inside mighty black holes, their light unable to escape the grasp of their captive. What stories would they tell? It really pains me that they can’t experience the beauty of the universe, our collective existence and what we’ve all built.

If we’re all a bunch of atoms and dust born within stars, then wouldn’t our death just be an inevitable rendezvous? Is death even a thing? Maybe, just maybe, it’s one of our many forms of existence.

Here. Hold my hand and let’s go back even further, to the start of time itself. We’re all in one infinitely small and dense point that’s ready to explode, the Big Bang we call it. The Big Bang doesn’t just mean that the universe started from one point, it also means that we: me, you, birds, mountains, trees, whales, thoughts, heartbreaks, feelings, clouds, ideas, stars, poems, books, memories, warm touches, cries, and laughter. All of it. We were all one. One beautiful, infinitely small dot.

We are the universe.

Our collective is the universe making sense of itself, or at least trying. Our collective is the universe painting, expressing its creativity. Our books and ideas are the universe being its own critic and making sense of its very existence. Our religions are us trying to praise ourselves. It’s a form of self-love, albeit a very conceited one.

We do not pray to different Gods. We also do not share the same one as some Abrahamic folks may have you believe. We ARE God.

I am you, and you are me.

And remember, we are also all the trees.