365 Days of Happy - Day 26

I recently became obsessed with Thought Catalog. I'm not sure how to describe this website. Instead, I've written down their ten ideals (#10 is my favorite).

1. Thought Catalog is fun, smart and creative.
2. This site is well-designed and clutter-free.
3. Thought Catalog contributors are diverse.

4. We're nobrow and nonpartisan. We don't take any of this or ourselves too seriously. Culture is our politics.
5. Reading Thought Catalog will probably make you more interesting. You're going to discover stories, ideas, and voices here that you won't find in the mainstream media.
6. We're about today. But our mission is also archival. We plan on sticking around for a long time.
7. Our content is always vetted and (most of the time) edited.
8. We're generous. We're positive. We're friendly. We prefer to focus on the good than the bad. We're more celebratory than critical.
9. Important conversations happen here.
10. In a small way, you're supporting the future of journalism.

This called You Are Free Energy, written by Mila Jaroniec.

You are the universe unfurling.

Cold water on hot skin, your skin's a sleepless city, a cosmopolis comprised of so many things, vibrating latticework spun out of so many regenerating cells. Go anywhere, do anything, there are so many things and you have so many lives.

You have so many lives, push yourself into the void off the deep end. The void is a soundproof room, sleep in it or scream; the void wants to play, close your fingers around its neck and inhale it, ingest it, squeeze it inside your atrium and let its oxygen thicken your blood. You came from somewhere but you also came from nowhere; you're unstill matter, tabula rasa every single morning. You are so many things.

What is it like to be so many things?

The feather drift of an eyelash in the void, scar tissue crystallizing over wounds, infinite power grids of cells reflecting white light and cold fingernail shavings flicked across the linoleum. You're the connective tissue, white matter shifting and changing as the void gets up and stretches, indents pressed into its calcified skeleton, raw blood and saliva and the glia holding it together, dead cell dust on the floor. You are the neural charge, the first open eye; you set in motion with the ultimate cosmic yes.

You are so many things and you are so beautiful.

We're parallel worlds but you overwhelm me when your fingers touch my skin, its electricity crackles and I can't tell what goes where in time, or how many eternities there are wound tightly into now, but sometimes things touch you and nothing and sometimes things touch you and everything. Some things brush against you and seep through the cracks in your shell, dissolve into your system and alter its chemistry, sliding and diffusing through your viscera like fever-molten ice.

You're a spark that can flare up at any moment and die at any moment but for that moment I'm rooted in, transfixed and watching the crash; you are the universe unfurling, a blinding collision of unfiltered light and I can't look away.

I can't look away, your fingers touch my skin and my lungs tighten on contact, my heart ricochets violently and plummets into the void of my stomach like a monster elevator with cut wires and I can't look away; I want to absorb your energy and coast on it before the universe consumes me, hold onto it for a moment before I'm a consciousness without a body, before the primal frequency splinters my vertebrae and I'm chewed up and spit out again and again like seeds.