Look

When we look up,

ancient light permeates our atmosphere,
penetrating our gaze,
taunting the most basic instincts of man.
The inconceivable complexity of time and space.
Laid bare in numbers.
Infinite as the atoms
they donated to compose
the symphony of our existence;
a concerto of our own
admiration,
awe,
gratitude,
and curiosity,
at the existence of our own composer.
The infinite complexity we call home.

Sprawled across the sky,
the notes are arranged
in absolute chaos
with absolute precision.
Scribbling a symphony
so perfect that the human mind,
no matter how driven,
could never hope to behold or understand.

To be present during the show,
the galactic orchestra that paints
pictures of the past,
portraits of the infinite,
diagrams of an impossible existence,
is to experience a renaissance of consciousness.
The realization that the only thing we know
is nothing at all.

With opening eyes,
opening ears,
as children we are born to infinitesimal speck,
hopelessly crossing vast stretches too unknown to describe,
desperate to learn
at the advent of opening minds.

Whether stowaways on a great voyage,
or entities instrumental,
our existence is just another speck;
another note in the sky.
To discover our origins,
our place in the sky,
our importance in the eternal workings of creation,
there is no obstacle too great, nor sacrifice too precious.
Movement begets movement.

To spend a lifetime
in a quest for knowledge
is to give in to curiosity;
a search for truth.
A pathetic, desperate, suicidal struggle
to understand
what we are looking at
when we look up.