When I take the time to remember that this is My Cosmos, relief washes over me.
The world of this creature on this green rock is downright bizarre compared to the consistent, predictable, unhurried pace of the universe.
No need to run to the Corner Star before it closes because it burns always, with enough fuel to run four billion more years or so.
By then, it’ll be of no concern to me or my kin.
In spite of the seemingly-fantastic speeds, vast expanses measured, unfathomable numbers expressed using the mechanical and mathematical terms of the species trapped on a single tiny planet, the cosmos will not be rushed.
You and I cannot compel it to finish the Quasar before our vacation. We can’t postpone or reschedule the meteor shower due to cloud cover over North America. We can’t call in and skip the crash of our galaxy into the next as we hurtle through space at six hundred kilometers per second on a collision course.
And so, with relief, I said aloud to the sky, “Well, this is My Cosmos. I’ll do whatever I want with it.” I may seize the day or let it pass. I can fritter away the minuscule ration of hours afforded me. Trapped here inside this mind, on this planet, in this wondrous thing called life and time, complete and total freedom awaits me.
“The world is your exercise book.” roughly paraphrasing Richard Bach in Illusions.
You’re free to write your reps, or write lies, or scribble, or tear out the pages.
Go ahead. It’s Your Cosmos.
Be at peace,
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