Aftermath of Nightmares

I have a thing for nightmare aftermaths. So here’s one for a couple characters. Sorta superheros, like Arvin and Violet and August, but a separate group.

An instant before Garnet comes awake, it starts, and by the time she’s even slightly aware, she’s gone too far in to get out. Her breath is coming ragged and too quick, well into hyperventilation, and she can’t remember how to fix hyperventilation. Garnet can smell and taste blood and she gags, and then she’s throwing up. She wheels away, reels off the bed. Her shoulder and head catch against the post—since when has she slept in an actual bed, where the heck is she?—and she feels something tear and nearly screams in pain.

She’s on her feet, not even sure where she’s going—where is she, she knows she’s been here before—slams down a hallway, unable even to keep quiet. She’s going to get herself killed like this and she knows it, but she just can’t seem to stop. And there’s no air, or maybe there is, and she just can’t get to it and—bodies, scattered, on the floor, when she blinks, then they’re gone, and there again—

She’s out of her mind, has to be.

She slams through a door, hurting herself even more on something sharp, what she doesn’t know, in the process.

She gasps a name, a name which barely registers until a person sits up in moonlight, shocked, says her name aloud, and she realizes she’s in Ben’s room. And she doesn’t know why she’s here or how she got here, but she can’t even breathe, and she needs him.

“Garnet, what the—”

“Panic attack—” Garnet barely manages to say before she’s on her knees, throwing up on the rug again, blood in her mouth and now sticky on her hands. “Blood.”

“It’s not real—” But when Ben reaches out to touch her, she recoils; he flicks on the lamp, she screams in pain, her eyes burning. He switches it off superfast, but it was long enough for him to see whatever’s wrong with her, because he’s touching her—gently, oh so gently, what in the world did she ever do to deserve something like that?—trying to find where she’s hurt.

She can’t remember. But she’s so scared and terrified and she can’t breathe and Ben needs to tell her how and she can’t register how to get him to do that. He stops trying to find her wound, realizing probably that she needs air more.

“Garnet.” He shoves her hands over her mouth—he’s cutting off her air, what is he—oh. That’s how you stop hyperventilating. Air sucks up through her hands and back out, like a warm, wet vacuum. There’s too much to smell and her mouth tastes repulsive and the flashes of her dream keeping hitting her like trucks but Ben is talking, and as he talks, the mechanisms and training built into her start to turn back on and she slows it and with Ben, she breathes and stops and the panic fades.

She throws up again. Spots dance before her eyes, but they fade as she blinks.

Ben rubs her back and holds her hair away. The light in the hall came on a second before, pattering bare feet racing down, and they stop in the doorway behind her. “Breathe, Garnet,” Ben directs. Garnet knots her hands into fists in her tee shirt and tries to get control of herself, and eventually, she does, although the smell of blood and her own sickness is almost too much to overcome, coupled with whispers from well-meaning friends who she isn’t strong enough to face right now. She shifts and moves away from where she threw up and collapses on the cool, hard floor.

The wood is soft with polish under her face.

“What happened?” Someone asks Ben—Kat, right? Yeah. Kat.

“She had a nightmare, I think. She bit her tongue—tore her shoulder up. I didn’t know she had stitches in. But it was enough blood to freak her up and out.”

“I banged my head, too,” Garnet slurs against the floor. “Mi’ have a lil bit of a concussion.” She manages to say. That might explain all the throwing up.

Katrina swears. Ben flicks the light again, sits her up gently, and checks her eyes. “Not bad, if you did. I don’t think you did.”

“Taste of blood, then.” Garnet whispers, and lets her head sink against Ben’s shoulder. She shouldn’t. She hasn’t even been in the house for 48 hours and she’s already letting all of them in again. Someone’s going to get hurt. If she’s lucky, it will only be her.

“How long has that made you sick?” Ben asks.

Garnet tries to remember. She lurches away from him and dry heaves, unable to get up anything more. When it’s over, she gasps shakily, “Don’ think that’s a very good thing to think ‘bout right now.”

Someone pads up through the room and helps Ben get her sitting up. A cold washcloth is pressed against her face and neck, wonderfully cool and wet against her skin. Walter hands Ben the med kit and offers Garnet a straw. When she sips, there’s the taste of flat, cold ginger ale. She sips greedily, but Walter pulls it away.

“Don’t make yourself sick again, Garn. I know you’re thirsty and you want to drink more than anything, but we need to stitch and check you up, make sure you’re okay, and if you drink too much you might be sick again.”

Walter makes sure she understands before he sets the glass down—and even then, sets it a little out of reach. Then, with Ben, he gets her patched back together. Kat flinches as she sees the long parallel cut marks on her shoulder which came back open. Ben and Walter remain calm. Walter asks how she got them. Garnet shakes her head, too tired to try and remember.

Ben gently advises some of the others, clustered outside the door, to go to bed again.

Walter gives her another wonderful sip of ginger ale. She controls her urge to gulp it all and only takes a little this time.

At last they’re done, and Kat and someone—Beatrice? are cleaning up in Ben’s room and hers. Walter and Ben help her downstairs and Walter finally lets her finish a bit of the soda. They lay her down on the couch and Walter sits with her head in his lap, idly carding his fingers through her hair.

Ben leans his head on Walter’s legs, and holds Garnet’s hand and talks to her.

Slowly, she relaxes.

It’s only later that she finds out she fell asleep.



Super cliche story beginning thing I wrote which I like anyway.

In the golden days, when Prince Evarith was made King of Laevrin, and Esiar Duriar was his knight, and the knightly code was upheld by her and by all his knights, a great peace and alliance was built, and there was joy throughout the land. But when Esiar was slain by the monstrous Du’scire in the War of the Fallen, and her knights were scattered, the alliance between Laevrin, Svaria, Elterl, Morya, and Kinstror was broken, and the kingdoms fell, one by one, with the knights’ order having fallen, and the nobles opening their gates to Du’scire and his armies.

Evarith’s blood was spilled on the stones of the great Castle, and with him, the bloodline was utterly spent.

In Svaria, the tyranny of Lior suddenly became manifest, he being now unchecked by the league and alliance. In Elterl, the rebels were separated by schism, till, cloven asunder and powerless, they were forced to cast down their swords before Du’scire. Morya’s best and bravest spent their blood and lives fighting for Carsihan, the great general, but on the eve of the great battle, Du’scire’s spies murdered him, and the battle was lost in chaos. Kinstror made no resistance, and openly welcomed the dark Sorceror.

There remained in the people no hope of succor. The best of their blood, the greatest of their men, their holy order of knighthood, all had fallen, too weak to stand before Du’scire’s wrath and darkness. Some whispered that the brother-knight of Esiar, great prince of Morya, her dearest friend but for Evarith, and most trusted counselor, had survived the last battle of Morya’s resistance. But rumor faded into myth as the years passed. A six score years and more all of Evnia groaned under the tyrant’s yoke.

One day of spring, when the final dying flower of the Rianor tree had fallen, the last seer of Evnia’s dying legacy woke with a gasp, eyes blazing gray with his prophecy. The slave had beheld the redemption of the land, and was glad. That night, as the darkness fell into moonless starlight, they slew the him and left his body for the scavengers, as he had refused to tell Du’scire what he had seen in his dream.

Ayre Dunfire, half a thousand miles away, opened his bright brown eyes for the first time, and shouted a cry, heard throughout the pitiful huts of the miners, and which many would attest in years to come was more the roar of a lion than the cry of a child.

Scriel the slave girl refused to kneel.

Illisia set his mouth against the pain of punishment.

And a hundred more children, yet unborn, opened bright eyes from sleep. The time had come. The time was now. New hands would lift the sword, heal the fallen, smite the foe. New hearts would beat. And the unconquered King would reign again in Evnia.

All Before

Water has seen it all before.

Every drop must’ve been snow before,

Or rained before

Or circulated through streams,

Touched by human fingers,

Washing clean dirt,

Polishing stones to delight the little ones.

Rained, after a drought, to cries of wonder and joy.

Enfolded a child in its arms, as the little one

Lost the air in their lungs.

Unable to feel sad for it

Only wondering at how fragile the little living things

On the skin of the earth


If a child mourns the snow, is it not true

That this same melting snow will snow again

In fifty years, or a hundred, or a thousand?

That the river will flow with this water again someday?

That someone else drank that water

Someone else bled in it

Left quickly lost fingerprints against it.

If nothing is new under the sun

Then the water must’ve hugged a swimmer,

And run through bodies,

And been cleansed

Again and again.

How strange it is that no one considers

What that must mean for the water

And how tired it must sometimes get

Running and running onward without any rest.

Dying Heroism

You know, I sometimes feel that heroism is going out of fashion. Modesty, religion and real honest to God love are already hopelessly out of fashion. But now heroism, true, pure heroism, of high morals and honesty, purity and integrity, have fallen out of style. Heroes don’t have to be perfect to be heroes, and they can make mistakes. I’m not opposed to heroes being portrayed as flawed people.

What I am opposed to is the tragic way in which books and movies now eliminate heroes  and morals from the equation altogether. I have read too many modern books which do away with morals and true heroism. I can barely read books anymore without finding protagonists rather than heroes in them.

It’s hard to find good books which have the perspective of heroism. I read Ready Player One recently because it was so recommended and I honestly had trouble reading it because the author shoved so much moral relativism into it I wanted to choke. I can’t recommend it really, because the hero wasn’t a hero for me, and the morals weren’t morals. Wade was just… meh. He a) felt so whiny b) doesn’t actually seem to care about anyone other than himself c) is a mercenary brat d) kept calling people fascists out of context with what fascists actually are.

Facism– (according to the Merriam-Webster) a political philosophy, movement, or regime (such as that of the Fascisti) that exalts nation and often race above the individual and that stands for a centralized autocratic government headed by a dictatorial leader, severe economic and social regimentation, and forcible suppression of opposition

That doesn’t describe the people he was referring to as fascists at all. But I’m not going to rant on the book, just recommend you don’t read it.

Ends do not justify means. People don’t seem to understand that anymore, though. The problem with moral relativism is that human reason can justify anything. Heck, people could probably justify human sacrifice if they tried hard enough. Only objective morality and truth can be relied upon. Feelings are variable. Is killing all right for psychopaths, since they feel it’s alright? And if there is no truth, then that statement itself is not true. Which is a contradiction, which means there must be truth.

If Adolf Hitler thought it was right to kill the Jews, was it right? That’s why moral relativism doesn’t work. Because if you can apply it to stealing a candy bar, someone else will apply it to killing a man.

This is why we need moral heroes for children to follow. They need to know that right and wrong do exist and that right is right and wrong is wrong and objective morality cannot be rewritten to make people happy.

Some good examples of heroism with flaws for me would be Edmund Pevensie, Frodo Baggins, Obi-wan Kenobi, and Steve Rogers. All of these characters make mistakes, none are perfect, but for me they have always embodied what heroism is supposed to be; a personal effort to always do the right thing, regardless of how hard it is to do so.

Edmund is not kind or good when the books begin. That’s why I’ve always loved him so much, because for him it was a struggle to be a hero. But he becomes so much stronger. The reason I got mad at the BBC Prince Caspian movie was because it doesn’t show Edmund’s decision to trust Lucy; “When we first discovered Narnia a year ago–or a thousand years ago, whichever it is–it was Lucy who discovered it first and none of us would believe her. I was the worst of the lot. I know. Yet she was right after all. Wouldn’t it be fair to believe her this time?”

It’s a huge moment for Edmund’s character. He shows that he has faith–believing in things he has not seen–in both his sister and Aslan. He’s also admitting that he was wrong. Edmund does this several times in the course of the series, like in The Dawn Treader; You were only an ass–I was a traitor. He’s so honest about his failure. He doesn’t try to smooth it over. He admits it. This was what made Edmund my favorite of the Pevensies, I think. There are so many other reasons he’s my favorite, but this was the first of many.

As for Frodo, he doesn’t want to be a hero. He doesn’t want his name to be shouted in a crowd. All he wants to do at first is to protect his home. He truly grows in the story. He learns mercy and patience, and to do the right thing because it is right. He was so damaged by the ring but he became (I think) the best  and bravest person he could be. There is so much beauty in his character that would have gone completely undeveloped had he just let someone else take the ring. Also, LotR in a way is a defense against moral relativism. They would take the Ring (symbolizing evil and sin) intending to use it for good, but it would pervert even the best and strongest of them (Gandalf and Galadriel). They have to destroy it instead.

Obi-wan is a very human character. He makes mistakes, but he always has to pay for them, and he takes responsibility for them. He is a very active character, in that he makes choices and takes responsibility rather than letting things happen and blaming others. He’s selfless and idealistic without being naive. His pride is more of the sort of Michael (who is like unto God?) rather than Lucifer (I will not serve).

And Steve Rogers, of course, as we all know, is willing to die to save others. He does what’s harder, too; he lives, and gives his life, not in the sense of dying but in the sense of plodding away every day, using up his time, his happiness and peace in order to keep others safe. This, I think, is what we admire most about him. The death of a hero is easy to forget, sometimes, because one thing humans are willing to do is die for others. It’s harder for us to live, uncomplaining, giving and giving and giving without ever being repaid.

So what are the heroic qualities we need to see in books and other media?

  1. Responsibility. If you spend your life blaming other people for what you do wrong, you will never learn to do the right thing.
  2. Struggle. We need to see the characters struggle, as we do, to do the right thing. We need to see them develop, because this helps us see that we ourselves can change.
  3. Determination. Enough said. Heroes have to keep going through their own weakness and failure, along with that of others.
  4. Conscience. At least some of our protagonists need to have high morals, so that these morals are impressed on us.
  5. Kindness.
  6. Selflessness. To give when you have nothing left to give. The coat off your back, the last dollar in your wallet.

There are other qualities, and one hero can have only a few and fight for the others. Virtues don’t come naturally when you’ve had a lifetime to develop bad habits.

And not every protagonist must be a hero.

But some ought to be. We ought to see heroism. After all;

“For the rest, brethren, whatsoever things are true, whatsoever modest, whatsoever just, whatsoever holy, whatsoever lovely, whatsoever of good fame, if there be any virtue, if any praise of discipline, think on these things.”–Philippians 4:8

What we put into our minds and hearts is going to affect them. We ought to try and affect them in good ways, not in horrid, dirty ways. We can read things we disagree with. We sometimes must, if we are to argue against them. But we shouldn’t let these views pervert our own.

So; write good heroes, read good heroes, think on what is true and good, and give, for it is in giving that we receive. Thank you for reading, God bless you all, and I love you guys!

Pax tecum.


Sometimes I wonder what the rainstorms of our tears

Must be like for our eyelashes.

Is it an unseasonable flood

Or an impossible task, in their endeavor to keep our eyes safe

Or a dirty, salty rainstorm?

And is mascara a disconcerting experience

To be blackened like a stovetop

For a night on the town

And when both at once occur

This flood of black salt water

Clinging to our eyelashes and refusing to let go

Like mud on skin or in hair.

So insulting to treat the armor we are given

Against germs and bugs and dirt

As though it were decorative


They look properly decorative, if I’m being honest.

Just a quick self portrait

because I’ve changed I have obtained CHEEKBONES matured a bit maybe started being able to write poetry that rhymes (add in one or all of those as desired, but let’s just generally stick with) I’ve changed.

I am now seventeen and a half. I’m trying to finish up my senior year in high school. My mom wants me to take a gap year before college. I’m minorly terrified of life right now? I’m reading a bunch of books, which I will just summarize; Don Quixote (substantial and 760 pages of conversation let me die ha ha no, it’s actually good there’s just so much of it), Saintly Solutions to Life’s Common Problems (don’t knock it till you’ve tried it), The Flying Ensign (just finished a fifth (?) read through), The Vengekeep Prophecies, and a massive amount of other books it would take too long to list. As I frequently read about 3 books a week outside of school, this should not surprise you. I only watch maybe an hour or two of tv a week, usually with my dad or little sister on Sundays, so reading is my main escape from reality. I’m a kinda quick reader.

I drink about 2-3 cups of tea a day, and about 48 ounces of water outside of that. I love riding my bike and I’ve been doing that a lot recently. I’ll probably be doing a dance intensive in June or July and that is going to SEVERELY limit my posting activity here.

Physically speaking, 5’6″ or 7″, (don’t quote me I haven’t been measured in months). Around 146 pounds. Dark brown hair, sort of wavy, past my shoulders, really thick. Large dark brown eyes (people can’t tell where my irises end and my pupils begin mostly). Cheekbones, which I am way too proud of.  I’ve kind of been wanting them all my life and they finally showed up sometime last summer like fashionably late. I’ve frequently been mistaken for being younger than I am. One lady thought I was 14. My voice helps maintain that illusion. I have a nice, not high but not old voice. My face is kinda round but is broadest across the cheekbones. My ears are pierced. I wear purple glasses and want contacts because they’d be useful and glasses are not fun in rainstorms.

I don’t dress fashionably. I mostly wear sweatshirts in the winter and jeans whenever it’s cool enough, and shorts and a tee shirt otherwise.

That’s enough of me. Unbearable of me to talk about myself, I know. Here you go, anyway. If you see me on the street, be sure it’s actually me before you holler hello cause otherwise it could be awkward for you.

But Some Promises

Not sure if I like this one as much as the first with the same characters, but Whatever. It might be one of those things I have to completely rewrite when my writing brain is working better and I feel like this is superduper cliche, but here you go.

“I’ll save you,” Cirrus told the little girl she was holding. “I promise.” She felt the words catch and take, felt the promise begin to bind her.

It would hurt, to keep the promise. But she could do it. What was it, to live a few months of hell, so that someone else could live their whole life in the light?


“How many children are there down there?”

It’s a loaded question. How many lives are you going to shatter? How many children will never draw breath? How many girls will never have their first kiss? How many boys will never learn to dance? Children never learn to sing? How much endless potential shattered, broken, never to be repaired?

“I don’t know.” His voice is dead now. His eyes are so different. He has lived a thousand years of war. Cirrus has aged seven months through hell. He has aged a million years as a demon.

She nods. “You don’t know.” It’s not even an accusation. She understands life too well for that, now. “But you could guess.”

He closes his eyes. He hasn’t looked at her once, and despite everything, that is what hurts her the most. He has destroyed a billion lives, and he thinks she’s the monster. “It doesn’t matter. All of this—this will be over.”

Cirrus watches her blood drip off her fingers, every drop a tick mark of agony, of life gone, down the drain, irretrievable. Her body is trying so hard, so hard to survive. But there’s only so much she can take. Like this planet, so resilient, like these people, who have fought so hard. But there’s only so much it can take. She shuts off the blasting pain in her head, so bad she just wants to let her eyes close and not open again. “And you’d kill them all for that?” Her voice is gentle.

“YOU KILLLED THEM!” He screams at her. The force throws her backward, against the wall; she tastes blood in her mouth, her vision blackens, every nerve screams.

Her bonds have shattered. The veins in her wrists have broken open, every bruise renewed. She looks down, blurrily, and sees the wound in her stomach is bleeding again. She’s going to die sooner than she thought. Give up, the darkness whispers.

We’ve already won.

But Cirrus thinks of faces, of eyes, of the dying hope, and something inside her, all cracked up and bloody though it is, whispers get up. Her head bursts with stars, blinding her, white and black flashes. Get up. A soundless scream parts her lips. Get up. Blood splashes on the floor. Get up.

She does. Struggles to her feet, faces the trembling, broken boy in front of her. She can’t stop him. She can’t fight him. She steps forward, not even knowing what she means to do.

She wraps her arms around him; feels pain in her side, another wound. She accepts it. “I forgive you,” She breathes.

The world explodes into light.


Four billion children look up at the sky, suddenly blue again. The dust clears. The darkness fades. A million miles away, the war has been won. Screams of joy. Some fall on their knees. Storm looks up and away, to where her promised first born is just barely breathing. Some promises are always broken. But some, sometimes, are kept.

Storm smiles at children, now safe. It is time for her to bring Cirrus home. They used to say that love is keeping a promise you haven’t spoken.

It’s been long enough since the last time she did that.



My Everything

I know I’m reusing words a thousand others have used before, but they’re good words.

So here goes. I love you all, thanks for reading, and God bless!

I am blind but in you I see;

My heart is broken but in you it beats

My soul was lost to sin but in you it’s clean;

You are my everything.


Your love is so great that you came down to earth;

And died abandoned to pay for the cleansing rebirth

You told me you love me, and I want to sing

You are my everything.


I lost what I wanted, but you have what I need;

You give and you give and say nothing of greed

You take me, I break me, you rebuild me again

You are my everything.


How wonderful it is, the things you have made;

The stars in the sky, the coolness in the shade

My soul longs for you as the deer in the glade

Longs for the water in spring

And again, I say, my king;

You are my everything.


How can you love me as much as you do?

Everything I need is provided in you

Nothing can satisfy me, it is true

But you


You made me, I left you, but you come for me

I have nothing that you really need

But without you, I can’t even breathe;

You are my everything.


My father, my savior, my king.

The Lord, the Master, the song that I sing;

The deliverer, the freedom, the peace that you bring;

You are my everything.


You are my everything.

Come on

Why is it so hard to open your mouth and tell someone that you’re not okay?

Is it because

  1. You don’t want them to know or
  2. They couldn’t fix it or
  3. You should be okay without that?

Because it’s okay to be not okay

And most of us aren’t.

There will be a time in your life when everything crashes down around you

When you feel that no one and nothing cares

When you wonder what is wrong with you

When you feel you cannot do it

When you feel you are not good enough

That you never will be

And that no one should care.

There will be times when you are terrified

That people will see you for what you think you are.

(Note that how you are is not how you think you are.)

Times when things are so big and you don’t know

How in the world you can do it

And you just feel alone.

But that’s okay.

Because let’s face it.

The things you think you must do

Are only enormous because you can’t see them clearly

And a lot of them are in no way essential

To who you are.

There are so many ways of living.

Just because everyone assumes you’re going to do it one way doesn’t mean you have to.


Look at it like this;

If you fail

You can still get up

If you break

You can still be repaired.

If you lose who you are

Then you can find who you could be.

It’s okay not to be okay

And it’s okay to say so.

Maybe not to everyone

Because saying what you feel can be like

Stripping off every layer of your soul

And letting people look at it.

But to the people who matter.

Because you don’t have to be perfect; no one now living is.

And others already know you aren’t perfect, so you don’t have to maintain that


Illusion for them.


Quite possibly, what you are taking on

Is too big to do


But not for the person you will become

In trying to do it.

It may not seem like it

But trying matters just as much as succeeding does.

Doctors can’t always save lives

But they can always try, and if they didn’t try

They couldn’t ever save people.

You aren’t done.

Not yet.

And yes, everything is enormous. It is hard to draw breath.

Some things you have done you will always have with you

Always feel bad for

But that doesn’t mean you have to carry them

On your back.

They’ll follow without that.

And those things

It’s good you feel bad for them, because they were wrong.

But it’s over and done with, and because you’re sorry, you’re forgiven

So you need to let them go.

It is hard to live, but it is not impossible.

You have done things wrong, but you can still do things right.

Because you have lost

It doesn’t mean you cannot win.

So one more breath.

Another stab at the dragon.

Come on.

It’s time to get up.

This is just stuff I’ve been dealing with. Not a very good poem, not very good words, not very good meaning, but sometimes it just helps to get it out on paper so you can let go of it.

Anyway, thank you for reading, I love you all, you’re all so beautiful and lovely, and God bless!

Some thoughts

This is almost a poem, I guess. Just me thinking and writing down what I was thinking. Anyway, here it is. And I’m so sorry I’ve neglected you all and this blog so abominably the past couple weeks. I’ve been super busy. I’ll try to post a lot this week to make up for it.

Hope you enjoy!


On God





The Load of Nonsense

Generally sold as accurate


In a billion light years of space, in an unfathomable, infinite well of time, though there are trillions stars and quadrillions of chunks of rock hurtling through space masquerading as planets, here you are. In a universe (which no one can prove how it exists, but it does), on a planet so perfectly placed that the numbers of probability are infinitesimal and therefore, mathematically, are ever closer to zero, here you are. On the Orion Spiral Arm of the Milky Way galaxy, clinging to the skin of a rapidly whirling planet by sheer dint of will, atmosphere, and gravity, despite the fact that every one of us is a ticking time bomb, despite the fact that every breath could so easily end us, despite germs and the size of atoms and the chemical composition of water, and the tiny chance of all of this existing, you are here. Nor will you ever be anywhere else. You are the single you, a paradox (should not exist, and does), in all of time and space, where no one will have your fingerprints, your brain, your smile, your face, your hair or your body or the scars it proudly wears, ever again. And you are here.

In Calculus, they tell you that 1/x, as x→∞, is zero.

Mathematical probability: (as we multiply all the odds, the number approaches and becomes) zero.

You are improbable.

This should not have happened.

But in defiance of everything math and science tells us, here you are.

If that isn’t supernatural, I don’t know what is.

No one can count infinity. No one can measure the Universe. No one knows what is beyond it.

despite all the numbers, we are here, planet earth, solar system, orion arm, milky way galaxy, local group, universe, cosmic infinity—or as some call it; the mind of God.

How is it possible?

We don’t know.

Even the scientists are only guessing. They look at data and they make a more or less educated guess. All that anybody can do is make up an explanation which seems to fit. Ask any scientist what a theory is. Oh, a hypothesis that has been supported by evidence. What is a hypothesis? An idea you can test. What is an idea? An idea is just a random thought you have, more or less educated. (What is a scientific law? A theory supported by a great deal of data. Can you prove your theory? No. You can just get enough evidence that it seems likely to be true.) So what are they doing? Guessing with style, and then sticking their belief in a guess.

When you think about it, science isn’t so different from religion.

Except religion explains not only how we got here, but why we are here. Some people who don’t believe in God say we are here for pleasure, self-actualization or some equally ridiculous bull, but if we came from chance, we’re not only impossible, we’re impossible and here for no reason whatever and nobody cares whether we live or die or what happens to this tiny race, in this enormous universe. So then nothing matters.

If there is a God though, the math doesn’t matter, and somebody does care, or that somebody wouldn’t have made us at all or let us be made. So now things matter.

Somehow, I like it better in a universe where things matter.