I stare at the sky. I lose myself in the brilliant color, the quality of changing light, the clouds passing. Staring relaxes my mind, becomes meditation. The immensity of the vast firmament puts my life in perspective. I breathe, perceive this infinite field of vision and start to see the little cells in my eyes dancing. It’s like a hallucination and my ego vanishes in it. I wonder about the nature of perception and about human limits; I become more aware of my consciousness. To think of the interconnectedness of all things — the bird, the tree, the wind… I wonder how it must be like to fly, to grow branches and leaves, to be the breeze. Does a tree feel the wind blowing through it?
It’s natural to wonder. The big questions come so easily: Why are we here? Where does life come from? What does it all mean? It’s so inherent somehow to ask why, as if any answer could be satisfying. I think the answer is the question itself. The sky tells me so. Looking up, I somehow know. I feel profound poignancy.
In the black sky the feeling deepens. It’s so full of mind-boggling significance. Stars are incomprehensible distances away, the math impossible to grasp. Zooming out from the sun, it’s clear how infinitesimally small we are, really, in the grand scheme of things. Zooming in is the opposite, into our cells, our biology. Somehow I find it freeing — to be such a speck of dust floating in the universe, and to also have universes within us, coursing through our veins. There’s an existential magic to all of it.