The universe is exhausting sometimes.
I say the universe as if I know how I’d feel living on some other planet in the Milky Way. (I’d feel dead, most likely.)
I can’t even say the world because I can’t claim to know what’s going in every bit of it. (I’m overwhelmed just thinking about knowing everything.)
I’m exhausted by the bits I’m paying attention to,
and by the clamor to pay attention to more and more bits.
My neck hurt so much a couple of weeks ago, I had to go to physical therapy.
I couldn’t turn left or right. I couldn’t look up at the sky.
I finished another round of rewrites on a story I keep trying to tell.
When I’m exhausted and in pain, I’m not hopeful about my story.
But I can now turn my head. I went outside and watched the full moon, which was so bright. I understand why people can think it creates its own light instead of reflecting the sun.
I’m working on the next story.
The universe is magnificent sometimes.