Writers Jam

we are a shiver in the dark fabric the first breath the universe took after swallowing its own silence the stars do not know our names yet we carry their ashes in our lungs each exhale a small confession: we were born from fire, we return to fire. we have been fragments broken stone carried in the belly of comets, drifting through cold epochs before colliding with oceans that did not yet know they were oceans. we have been salt dissolving in tides the whisper of algae inventing color the silent pulse of fish whose eyes first glimpsed the sun. we always will be the ones who ask why even when the sky offers no reply. we send our machines to wander the dead plains of Mars as if the rust there might remember us. we write equations to tame infinity but infinity laughs it has swallowed greater languages before. we are the weight of memory pressed into carbon the hushed collaboration of bone and gravity. our skeletons are scripts written in a dialect of collapse. and yet we dare to dance. on a rock hurling toward nothing we dare to carve meaning from accident, we dare to kiss as if time were not gnawing at our lips. we have been the survivors of extinction, carrying fossils in our bloodstreams. we have been dust and dust is patient. it waits for the next ignition the next star to fling us back into fire. we always will be the brief rebellion of order against the empire of entropy we build monuments to permanence knowing permanence is a myth. still we stack stones, still we etch names, still we teach children to trace constellations that will one day scatter like frightened birds. we are the poets of the void scribbling verses against the vast indifference. we are the ones who dream of gods not because they are real but because loneliness demands a listener we have been the laughter beneath guillotines the whisper in prison cells the hunger that drove us across oceans toward the unknown we have been destroyers burning forests to warm our fragile bodies, yet we have also been the hands that plant seeds into the wounds we ourselves carved. we always will be contradiction love tangled with violence beauty birthed from ruin. we will continue to look up at the night sky confusing distance with divinity and in our confusion find a strange kind of faith. even when the last galaxies drift apart when light stretches so thin that nothing remains but cold breath we will still persist in some hidden archive the echo of electrons, the ghost of a thought refusing to die. because what we are cannot be reduced to matter. we are the ache that matter feels when it learns to dream. we are the fever in the bloodstream of space the wound that never heals, the question that unravels itself. we have been and will be everything and nothing: an unfinished sentence etched into the margins of infinity. and perhaps that is enough.