Supach

In the quietude of midnight, when stars hang like lanterns in the celestial tapestry, I seek the language of the void. The moon, a silver coin tossed across the cosmic expanse, whispers secrets to the wind. Its craters, ancient scars, tell tales of forgotten gods. I walk barefoot on dew-kissed grass, my mortal feet tracing patterns of constellations long extinct. The night sky, an inkwell spilled, holds the musings of eternity. I ask the stars: “Are we but stardust dreaming? Do we carry the echoes of distant quasars in our bones?” The silence answers, a cosmic sigh woven into existence. I am both particle and wave, observer and observed, a fleeting spark in the cosmic dance. The black holes yawn, hungry for knowledge, swallowing light and time. I stretch my arms toward infinity, grasping at the edges of existence. Perhaps the answers lie in the spaces between atoms, in the resonance of pulsars, in the curvature of spacetime. Or perhaps they elude us, forever dancing just beyond

Can we be alone when we are not? I think so. We are there, they are there, but we are alone. Can others know the emptiness of loss of love and friendship? When that company is there, but not? Others too are there but not. They have their lives, their families... Do they care, I think so, But perhaps not enough to know the loneliness that is now here, How could they? The despair that one can feel when a loved one is there but not. Those of us who know understand that, We are alone but not.