It’s a bright star, it’s a supernova, is the beauty surrounding the untouchable core; a magnolia on a tree, the petals falling gently, slowly, dying. It’s the branches that are left that were ground down into the star’s chillydark . All is the universe and the universe is all. 

It’s the depth of the self that Cannot be Named, but unlike Voldemort, it is not evil. Some are sinister and twisted, not all, although each has its nuance of perversion. We are human, after all. 

We are the verisimilitude at the cocktail party, the rhetoric of the political party, the bombs and the sex and the babies crying and the old people laughing because why not? We are the rules and the establishment, we are the counter culture, all defined in our own way. We are selves. Aware? All of us? Certainly not. 

Our core is chillydark, but nothing to be feared because the concept of fear is created by chemicals that are neutrons firing and blasting. I’m sure personality plays a role too, but whether that is the essence or a mental construct I cannot confidently say. But there is always a spark; the first two pieces of flint knocked together to create a fire, because eventually the stones smash together and start the flame, and bounce from one another back into that asteroid belt through which the spacecraft must be driven past that dark star, looking for that galaxy, knowing somehow that it’s coming back to the magnolia and back to home. 

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