A string of thought.
Writhing through the fibers of my conscienceness.
The things that make us, and the things that make everything.
They are the same.
We are no different from the tree that sways in the wind.
We are identical to the walls we surround ourselves with.
We are indifferentiable from the stars that burn for eternities before us.
But these things that make us.
These things that make everything.
They are everything, we are everything, and everything is us.
Look into the night sky.
You do not see stars, you do not see galaxies.
You see your brother.
And when those stars.
Magnificent wonders that the Universe puts before us.
When they look back, towards you.
They see what makes them the gleaming, burning, magnificent wonders that they are.
Do not ask yourself what you are.
Ask, “What aren't I?”
Do not ask what you can do.
Ask, “What aren't I capable of?”
And do not ask why you are alive.
For you are the reason that the stars burn.