Look closer, and you’ll see the galaxies spin like spirals of DNA

We hid in the dark, waiting, watching—but the light comes for you, doesn’t it? No matter how you press yourself into the shadows, the world drags you out like a secret, forces you into the fire to see if you’ll burn or rise.

They don’t know—
we’ve been burning from the start.
The heat isn’t new; it’s our skin now, and every scar’s just another prayer unanswered.

Love, they say, is sacrifice, but it’s not. Love is the blade you learn to wield in silence, sharpened in dark corners where no one looks.

When the light finds you—you don’t run.

It was never just the stars—it’s the way they pulse, like the beating of a heart deep in the dark. Cosmic, yes— but you’d be mistaken to think they burn alone.

Look closer, and you’ll see: the galaxies spin like spirals of DNA, each star a cell, each burst of light a signal sent across a body we only half understand. We think the answers are out there— but they are here too, in the twisting of proteins, in the way a thought ignites like a sun, both of them burning for the same reason.

The ‘Aether wind’ flows through all this— through black holes swallowing time, and through the enzyme that folds a cell into life.

It is the great circulatory system, connecting nebulae and neurons, binding gravity to the way we fall in love, binding entropy to the way we die. It’s the same chemistry— the push and pull of forces we’ve only begun to name, and yet, we pretend to know.

We write equations for the stars, and formulas for the blood— but it’s all one script, a language written in motions too small and too vast for us to see. Astrophysics tells us we are made of stardust— but biochemistry reminds us that dust must still form, that cells still divide, and that the distance between galaxies is the same as between your breath and mine.

The universe expands like a lung— each inhale a birth, each exhale, death. A cosmic cycle reflected in the ticking of atoms inside us.

You see— it's all the same science, all the same energy, moving through the stars, through cells, through what we call love, which is just another reaction waiting to happen.

We don’t control this; we are shaped by it.

We think we know, but knowledge is just the shadow cast by forces too large to hold.

And yet, we reach— through telescopes and microscopes, we reach, not to capture, but to touch the flow of this aether that runs through everything.

So about discovery— it’s about remembering, about feeling that deep connection between the neurons that fire and the stars that collapse, knowing that, in the cosmic dance of cells and stars, the beauty is in the blend, not the mastery.

They gave us everything and nothing, just the silence that hums beneath the earth, reminding us ‘you belong to the dust.’ We hold the memory of leaves, not the tree. We hold the ache of a love that was never meant to stay— the way the river loves the shore, only to leave it, again and again.

This is the cost, they said, of knowing nothing, and pretending to know love. I call out into the forest, my voice swallowed by the fog, my hands reach for shadows that were never meant to be touched.

The ancestors whispered that this is how it is: Love is a stone dropped into water, rippling outward, until the surface stills, and you are left with only the quiet. And in that quiet, you hear them, the ones who came before, who lost as we lose, who loved as we love, and who fell into the same silence.

We were given nothing but their bones to trace our way back, and even then, we lose our footing.

You came like wind, and you left like fire, burning without a trace, leaving only the ash that clings to my skin, like a story half-told, like a name forgotten. But in the forgetting, there is survival, because we are not meant to hold on— only to let go, again and again. This is how we love, they said. This is how we live, they said.