Theory of Everything

A self portrait done several months ago spontaneously. I didn't have anything new to put here, but I still liked this old-ish one.

[originally written by hand on June 10th, 2010. location: Hatteras Island, NC]

I'm looking up at the stars, listening to the songs of some sort of night birds; I've never heard birds sing like this in the dead of night. And listening to the crashing of the waves on the shore in the background is such a novelty to me, albeit a peaceful one! I can't help but feel all of my worry and stress become irrelevant now. None of that can matter any more. I even entertain the thought of trying to make it matter--it doesn't work; it's a nice feeling, really.

I can see the Milky Way galaxy's long tendril span across the night sky. I've heard that at the centre of the galaxy, of every galaxy, is a supermassive black hole. Everything in our galaxy is slowly, but steadily, moving toward this abyss: Earth included, of course. But this thought only seems to increase my appreciation for the rare sights and sounds around me tonight. It's been so long since I've seen the sea, and the ambience it gives off is too indescribably wonderful for mere words. It makes me feel so awake with excitement, despite the hour; excitement of what, though? It's hard to say, but the best description I can muster is the excitement of being alive, being aware--aware that the sea and I are one, in a way. This great, vast, powerful thing that covers the planet came from the same particles of stardust and space debris as myself. These little bits and pieces make up the sea, the mountains, and even the most seemingly insignificant of things as well.

Even if everything here is destined for an inevitable void in space, it's strangely comforting (yet still intriguing), that at least the bits of stardust and comet trails and astroparticles that form me have gained the ability to question, learn, and understand what they--or me, rather--is a part of.

Those night birds just keep singing. A chorus of frogs have joined in now as well. The dull roar of the waves completes the symphony nicely. I wish I could just rush down to the shore and enjoy the closeness of the sea, but this goddamn knee... bah.


A thought crossed my mind, as I've just caught sight of a shooting star. I made a little wish for myself, as silly as it seems. I pick apart my reasonings behind the act: of course I know it's just celestrial debris burning up in our atmosphere, but there's something humbling, something reassuring about pinning a goal to this night-sky phenomenon. Perhaps it's the feeling of unity from knowing what makes up the meteorite and what makes up myself came from the same place. It flashes briefly before disintegrating, as if reaching out, wanting to be acknowledged. And with that brings another question to mind. Does everything in the universe share that goal? I know most, if not all people, must at some point in their lives. But if everything's goal is as such, by whom does it seek acknowledgement from?

Itself, perhaps.

When I apply the same question to my own self, the answer remains the same.

But I have only just recently fulfilled part of that goal. The remaining piece of this goal will be pursued for the remainder of my life: through people, animals, plants, mountains, art, stories... everything. Everything originated from the same thing, the same place. Thus, it is a constant path of self discovery and acknowledgement.