I have spent many nights thinking about cosmic voids, black holes, and the measurable vastness of space. Yet no matter how far my thoughts travel outward, they return inward.
The mystery of the universe is wide, but the mystery of the inner universe is wider.
The observable universe stretches billions of light-years across. It humbles by scale. It operates through laws: gravity curves spacetime, stars fuse hydrogen, black holes follow equations. It is immense, yet structured.
When I turn inward, structure becomes less certain.
Inside me exist memories of people once present in my life, echoes of voices that time has carried away, moments of pressure and silent fear, a desire for distance from noise, persistent questions about existence, belief, surrender, and consciousness. There is also an inclination toward simplicity — toward reducing external demands and seeking internal clarity.
A galaxy can be mapped. A mind cannot.
The human brain contains roughly 86 billion neurons; the Milky Way contains hundreds of billions of stars. The numbers are comparable, but their functions are not. Stars do not remember. They do not question their existence. I do.
The outer universe expands. The inner universe reflects. Reflection introduces a depth that expansion alone cannot explain.
Physics may describe the origin of the cosmos, but it cannot measure longing, doubt, or surrender. It cannot quantify meaning. The inner universe contains memory, imagination, conscience, and the concept of infinity — realities experienced directly yet resistant to measurement.
The outer universe reveals structure. The inner universe reveals awareness.
A telescope measures distance. Introspection measures depth — and depth remains the more difficult dimension.
The mystery outside humbles. The mystery inside transforms.
And perhaps the most demanding exploration is not across light-years of space, but across the uncharted terrain of one’s own consciousness.
