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17 | Ravenclaw
Sometimes I write things.

How It Happens

December 18, 2015

It starts with a silence. Not a nothing, but a silence. Soundless, but with so much churning under the surface. It starts with the gaseous flower of a supernova and celestial dust hurtling through space before we had the words to describe the voiceless tableau. It starts with the collapse of stars, from unfillable holes giving away their excess to create worlds. 

It's a story of attraction. Dust meeting dust and holding on, like meeting other like quandaries and clutching to each other like lifelines in the time before life existed. Then opposites, reaching across their polarity, searching for something else to belong to. And then they all cling together, looking for a place to hide from the inevitable nothing that surrounds them until time finds a way to die. 

Somewhere among that endless reaching for help, atoms and molecules learn to dance. Erratic, then synchronous, faster better bigger. 
Somewhere within those movements, we find the word beautiful. 

That's us. Hominids and hieroglyphs and sundials and philosophy and novels and bad poetry under the covers in the light of an iPhone screen. Ideas of bigger, starting with bigger brains and then bigger words and bigger reputations and bigger stories to tell -- and wanting better, better ways and lives and families and homes, a better world. Finally realizing that this round ball of colors is one entity, one world. 

That's us. Listening to the voices of the universe, we are dancing tonight, dancing to the echoes of their never-ending song. 


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