Galaxies in My Hands

Life is my opulent elixir—

a kaleidoscopic intoxication brewed

in the chalice of the cosmos.

I drink deep,

and the stars dissolve on my tongue

like sugared constellations,

each one a lesson, a labyrinth, a luminous spark

to chase before the night folds shut.

There is no vacancy for boredom here.

My hours are wild stallions—

I grip their manes,

begging the clock to splinter into more moments,

to give me twenty-five, twenty-six hours

so I can inhale the unfurling of every idea

before it escapes through the keyhole of forgetting.

Since childhood,

I’ve slept with a pen like a talisman,

a notepad at my bedside like a lighthouse—

its pages catching the storm of my midnight visions.

Now, over three hundred journals stand

like sentinels in my library of time,

spines cracked and breathing the ghosts

of dreams dated back to 1991.

Each one a fossil of a thought

that refused to be buried.

I am a traveler of dust and divinity,

a brief ember flung through the solar wind—

a human for the blink of eternity,

and in that blink, I will paint every second

with the pigment of my passion.

Pain is not my prison—it is my flint.

I strike it against the steel of creation,

and watch the sparks illuminate

the dark rooms of my mind.

I will forge beauty from ache,

turn every scar into calligraphy,

every wound into a window.

For life is what you shape from its molten gold,

and we—

we are the rarest of phenomena:

thinking dust,

breathing light,

poised on a spinning sphere

with a ticket that expires.

So I will not waste a heartbeat.

I will gorge myself on the infinite feast—

on sound, on color, on sensation,

on the miracle that I am here,

that you are here,

that this moment, right now,

is our small, exquisite eternity.