Legion of Thoughts
I sit still first.
The page cools
under my palm.
Ink waits.
A ceiling fan ticks—
not time,
just its imitation.
Only then
the mind widens.
Not suddenly.
Not gloriously.
Like a galaxy
noticed too late—
light already traveling
while I was washing a cup.
Ideas appear
as stars do:
without announcement,
already burning.
Some are young—
hot, reckless,
crowding the dark.
Others
have been dead for years
and still
insist on shining.
Between them,
a pull
I cannot name
but obey.
Dark matter, perhaps—
the gravity
of what I will never write,
holding everything
from flying apart.
A sentence forms,
buckles,
collapses inward—
a small black hole
taking half a thought,
three verbs,
and my confidence with it.
I forgive it.
Even space
wastes nothing.
Gravitational waves
pass through me—
not felt,
only inferred:
a tremor in the wrist,
a pause
where breath forgets
which direction
it was going.
I smile once—
at nothing visible—
the way you do
when a coin
refuses to lie still
on a table.
Outside,
traffic mutters
its constants.
Inside,
constellations rearrange
without consulting me.
I am not the architect.
I am the instrument.
Still—
my body keeps score:
the ache
between shoulder blades,
the tea gone lukewarm,
the single word
that finally clicks
into orbit.
To write
is not to map the galaxy.
It is to stand inside it
long enough
to feel
how small
gravity makes you,
how carefully
it asks you
to stay.
When the page fills,
nothing ends.
Stars continue
whether named
or not.
I close the notebook.
The room holds.
The dark
does not rush.
Somewhere,
something immense
keeps moving—
and for tonight,
that feels
like enough.
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