At the beach you find -

Three smooth stones, opaque as the universe before the first burst of light; almost clear, almost glass, but not quite: these are no diamonds, they are not brilliant. But they are beautiful.

A lifetime staring at the ground has afforded you these tiny treasures: these small smoothed stones, the lonely joy of witnessing imperceptible sounds physicalized, drawn before you, that you would otherwise pass on: a field of crickets playing Beethoven's 9th, cardio concerto, hamstring quartet. All the funny words and delight. Your solitude, their symphony. 

Something about how you've been fighting this idea - someone told you - that "all things spiral from a single point." But you want to believe god, like you, is not so organized. That there is no perfect ring, that inertia creates waves, the gut makes feeling. 

But as you've grown older you've begun to notice that even magic is careful. That there are reasons why hope floats; that the stars ARE moving, just further away from you. You reach up from the desert floor, though the arm of the Milky Way into the glittering web; a field beyond the night sky that you'd always known; always thought was black and cold and lonely, so quiet. But now that you've heard Saturn's icy rings and you've seen the stars and nebulae arc up and over your fingertips, you've seen Jupiter buoy like a bright baseball, just left field of the moon - what do you believe in? Who? 

How can you say there is no order just because your heart is broken, because you alone cannot make sense of your own spiral. Down? Up? Depends on the day. And if you could create a chart, a sky map of your very own heart: what each beat means it's strength and distance how bright it would be if set aflame at which degree - you might find more meaning; maybe even a will to believe that there is more to this life than you were taught, a will to find out why you’ve been plopped here, so naked. You do not have scales, or sharp teeth. You are not so big. You are mostly defenseless, and cold. 

But also: you are told again and again that you are a destroyer of worlds. You like to sleep alone. But with a broken heart, how do you make sense of this dichotomy? What is left to hold?

Does anything fit inside your two palms, anymore? Did anything ever?