holy fuck i’m reading my old journal from back when i was fifteen and unmedicated, and who hurt this poor thing? here is an excerpt of a passage from three years ago that i wrote the day after Christmas:
“Nothing matters, but everything sings. Black holes make noise— an infinite song that’s been sung from the beginning of time and will keep being sung until the entire universe reverts to dust and star matter. Worms make noise, too— tiny vibrations in the soil at a frequency humans cannot parse.
The loneliest whale in the world— 52 Blue— sings at a frequency no other whale in existence can understand. It journeys through its life unheard by its species. Never to be understood except for humans who cannot communicate back. For whom does 52 Blue sing? For its species? Its mother? Anyone? It does not know, because it is a whale.
For whom do I sing? My species? My mother? Anyone? I do not know, but I am cursed with thought.
I sing because I am made of stars. I am a black hole. I am a worm. I am the loneliest whale in existence. I am me.
I sing because everything sings, and I am no exception to physics. I am a statistic. I am physics. I am everything.
I sing because there is no plausible reason I should. I am an oxymoron. I am reason. I am because there is nothing that can stop me.
I am a piece of code. A singular line of code with eight billion other lines too. We all sing.
I understand now. More than I ever have or ever will again.
I am large. I contain multitudes.
But that is okay. I am alive.”
go ahead little me. also let’s get you some Prozac, sweetheart.
