Life is a paradox of scale. You’re a flicker of stardust in a universe that’s 13.8 billion years old, orbiting a middle-aged star in a galaxy you’ll never fully see. Your existence is statistically absurd a cosmic accident. Yet here you are, feeling the weight of a bad day, the warmth of a memory, or the ache of longing for someone’s voice. The universe doesn’t care, but *you do*. And that’s the magic. You’re an impossibly small thing with an impossibly vast inner world. Your consciousness is a flashlight in the dark, trying to illuminate meaning in a void that doesn’t speak your language. But maybe meaning isn’t *out there* it’s the act of searching itself. The stories we tell, the love we amplify, the way we stubbornly plant gardens in the shadow of entropy. We’re all just temporary arrangements of atoms trying to matter to other temporary arrangements of atoms. And somehow, that’s enough. Because in the brief cosmic blink we’re given, *connection* is the closest thing to infinity we’ll ever hold. Sleep well. Or don’t. Either way, the stars will keep spinning and so will you. ✨