writing is the universe.

Writing is the universe: it’s vast and complex and infinite and it sucks. How can mind-blowing things like nano-diamonds exist in the same dimension as my smelly socks? I cannot even fathom.
How can the slight difference in the structure of a molecule make the difference between an asthmatic medicine and the meth college-dropouts snort? I cannot even fathom.
I listen to Cobain and Grohl and Filter and Momsen and I’m happy and I cry. Why are emotions biologically explainable and yet still so so incomprehensible? I cannot even fathom. Sometimes I don’t want to.
This isn’t even about writing; this is about me because I am writing and I am the universe. Every single atom in the universe is the universe. I cannot—well, you know.
Here’s the paraphrased version of something someone said once: we learn that when our solar system was created, 99.99 percent of everything was sucked into the Sun. So everything else, the trees and you and me and spiders, are all the 00.01 percent that survived. And so we’re pretty freaking lucky.
I think I made a mistake. I said that everything in the universe is the universe, but actually, I think everything that cannot be touched, like our souls and our minds and our fears—that is the universe. Because those are the things that science can’t explain and Einstein can’t prove. And they are very scary because we cannot grasp them in our hands and call them mine. We cannot hunt them and frame them and showcase them in our houses. We cannot put price tags on them—we cannot even define them.
So why is this called ‘writing is the universe’? Because writing sets our souls and minds and fears free—and that makes writing so inconceivably powerful. And so yes, writing is the universe: it’s vast and complex and infinite and it does suck, but it is us.


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