I exist like a singularity pressed into the center of my own universe — dense with feeling, dense with memory, dense with every unspoken thing that never found a place to land.
Around me, the galaxy turns in its impossible choreography: every feeling becomes a celestial body, every insecurity becomes a fragment of debris, every memory becomes a star, every longing becomes a comet. Chaos and order braided together, each one tugging at me, each one refusing to become a direction.
When I reach outward, everything blurs — every attempt at movement becomes an orbit, a looping path that never quite escapes its own gravity. When I hold still, the universe freezes with me — every attempt at stillness becomes collapse, a quiet implosion into the center of myself.
So I hover in the paradox, unable to move, unable to remain, a gravity without a map.
Everywhere I look, the sky repeats itself — infinite in every direction, mirrored, recursive, a hall of celestial echoes. And I am the point at the center, not drifting, not anchored, just unbearably aware of how much the universe can hold and how little of it can tell me where to go.
