What if stars were synapses? It would explain the trillions, Each thought a pinprick of light In the vast neural night. What if quasars were eurekas? Brilliant as all suns combined, Ancient revelations still traveling Through the cosmic mind. What if black holes were sorrows? Infinitely black, seemingly endless, Consuming all light and matter Until time becomes meaningless. What if the multiverse were dreams? Colorful clouds of possibility, Where new thoughts take shape In the cosmic probability. What if comets were memories? Streaking through consciousness, Periodic returns of communal wisdom Through celestial vastness. What if galaxies were ideas? Spiral arms of structured thought, Rotating around central truths That gravity and wisdom wrought. What if the universe is consciousness? Expanding ever quicker with self realism, Each observer a point of awareness In the grand cosmic mechanism. Perhaps we are universe dreaming, Of stars and souls and spaces between, The edge of mind and cosmos blurring Into one quantum stream.
So You Want To Be A Writer if it doesn’t come bursting out of you in spite of everything, don’t do it. unless it comes unasked out of your heart and your mind and your mouth and your gut, don’t do it. if you have to sit for hours staring at your computer screen or hunched over your typewriter searching for words, don’t do it. if you’re doing it for money or fame, don’t do it. if you’re doing it because you want women in your bed, don’t do it. if you have to sit there and rewrite it again and again, don’t do it. if it’s hard work just thinking about doing it, don’t do it. if you’re trying to write like somebody else, forget about it. if you have to wait for it to roar out of you, then wait patiently. if it never does roar out of you, do something else.
if you first have to read it to your wife or your girlfriend or your boyfriend or your parents or to anybody at all, you’re not ready.
don’t be like so many writers, don’t be like so many thousands of people who call themselves writers, don’t be dull and boring and pretentious, don’t be consumed with self- love. the libraries of the world have yawned themselves to sleep over your kind. don’t add to that. don’t do it. unless it comes out of your soul like a rocket, unless being still would drive you to madness or suicide or murder, don’t do it. unless the sun inside you is burning your gut, don’t do it.
when it is truly time, and if you have been chosen, it will do it by itself and it will keep on doing it until you die or it dies in you.
To shelter is to cup your hands around another’s flame, to build walls from nothing but the warmth of your being. Love makes architects of us all, each gesture a foundation laid in tender circumstance. Grace lives raw and real in the curve of an embrace, of becoming someone else’s peace. We are all sanctuaries waiting to be recognized. To shelter is to say: rest here, where safety speaks.
