Alignment, January 25, 2025

The night opens its throat to drink the stars, a single gulp—planets arranged like beads on the wrist of a God who hasn’t touched us yet. Not like this: each orb polished smooth, singing through its orbit like teeth biting into the rind of silence. We say the word alignment, as if it’s simple—this gathering, this choreography of fire and stone. Jupiter swelling, a lung of gold. Saturn, its rings the color of rusted clocks. Each planet leaning forward, closer now, like strangers on a train before it derails into a new decade, or a new hymn— the kind only gravity hums, deep and low. Do you hear it? Your body answers first: a shiver, the sharp intake of breath, as if you’d been kissed without warning. Do you feel it? The turning, the pull—how the earth beneath you bends toward the sky’s open palm. Tonight, the stars remind us how small we are, how massive our desires. The universe presses its forehead against ours. It says: Go now. Write the letter. Burn the bridge. It says: Begin again. Outside, the trees rearrange their shadows on the ground. You can’t see it, but their roots are reaching, searching for something older than water, older than time. The stars will scatter come morning. What will you do with this alignment, this single stitch of light holding the fabric of everything together—if only for a moment? What will you become before the thread breaks?