On black holes

People always describe their souls as gardens they tend to. My soul is a galaxy. A vast empty space, an encompassing, harrowing darkness filled with every single element in the universe. Every era of my life is a solar system. Friends and family are planets, and every lover is a star, their luminosity dependent on their distance from my system’s sun.
Some burn with an unrivaled intensity, and some go supernova. These dying stars are worth living for. The ones whose death I witnessed have taken a piece of me with them. Their implosion took me by surprise. Their dissolution in dark matter was poisonous, their disappearance paralyzing. But even they were, at some point, gone.

Then comes the black hole, whose gravity pulls at the core of my very entity. Its darkness is palpable, yet within it I can see; a projected time machine materializes the moment I step inside, and so I can witness past, present, and future. I can kaleidoscopically glimpse a life within the confines of the most massive, most beautiful, chaotic, chimeric vacuum of my existence. In it I am free; blind, but free. Drowned, but free. Hauntingly asphyxiated, but free. In it, I am what I most desire: mine first.

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