The Symphony
An Ode to the universe; an Ode to itself.
Infinite galaxies, never-ending planets, and possibly an ineffable number of universes. Indefinite code united by a singularity of unknown purpose, a scream into the nothingness of space: why? If existence as we know it is nothing more than a fluke of cosmic probability then what stops the assertion that nothing matters? What actually is nothing if not inherently something, and all that is around us is built from accumulating somethings, therefore it follows that something is everything. Nothing is something which is everything. Thus when nothing truly matters, everything matters.
One might think of the universe as a blank canvas and one might say that it never asked to be filled. Yes, the canvas does not ask for art, it begs for art. Every nothing craves to be something — it needs to be something — and the universe’s emptiness is no different. This ache refused to starve and the universe decided it would feed it instead. It decided that it would be the canvas, the painter, and the paint. Yes, you are the universe and you are the universe experiencing itself. Purpose need not be built on foundations of a creator, the simplicity of being is enough to answer the complexity of the why. The universe whispered to our primordial ancestors and something compelled them to shout back. To prove that we are here and to prove that our brush is the words we speak, and the words we speak and write are the everything that make up nothing.
Somewhere across the universe a star vaporizes itself, turning everything around it into hot plasma and speaking its something in an attempt to be seen by you. The art is only as real as the person that observes it, your existence is only palpable by another persons existence. One floating rock in an endless sea of other floating rocks, amidst a random arm of a floating spiral swimming in billions of itself, amidst the vast and overwhelming nothingness in all of its everythingness. Yet you specifically were given the brush.
The universe has not stopped yearning, we have stopped listening. Everything is in between. Stop and look and listen; heed the whisper our atoms heard at the beginning of the universe. Contribute to the symphony, write your song, sing your thoughts, dance to the music that is the universe: that is you. Be the orchestrator and be the orchestra.
Be the never-ending Ode to the universe; an Ode to itself, an Ode to you.
