there’s a galaxy in your backyard:

a celestial playground of planets circling sidestepped stars in a quiet moonwalk. the universe has no soul, but its spirit dances around you in unexpected crescendos: mercury, the game of cards, shuffling turns and dealing out twists; venus, the wayfaring soldier with a home, its gravity dragging you down every time you get back up on your feet; mars, the destroyer, the warlord, the one responsible for the wreckage you sometimes become; jupiter, the supreme court, feeding you your just desserts for crimes you did not commit; saturn, the farmer, looking out for its crops and thinking you a crow when really you’re a hummingbird disfigured by unpasteurised cruelties; uranus, the progression, the impatient, the rush of time that waits for no one; and neptune, the god of water, the downhill current thrusting itself upon you in lust so that you’re devoured whole. then there’s earth, the reality, your reality, you are your own reality, you own your own reality. you orbit around the sun (sometimes getting blinded) and the moon revolves around you (sometimes forgetting the sun). and that, miss universe, is exactly why dusk sheds its midnight skin and dons a cloak of ethereal mornings come dawn.

there may be black holes in the fabric of your existence, but not every star has collapsed. you will always find warmth. there will always be light.

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