Let’s start with the obvious: you and I are spirits in temporary flesh suits, hurtling through space on a rock warmed by a star that’s eventually going to explode. Sounds dramatic? That’s physics. Or maybe just a made-up story.
The universe as we know it began when consciousness—or something pretending to be it—flipped the cosmic light switch. Boom: reality. A tiny singularity coughed up time, space, matter, energy, and possibly regret. In the first few nanoseconds, everything went from “nothing” to “way too much” in a hot, sticky mess we now call the Big Bang. Out of that chaos came four forces that still run the show: gravity (which isn’t technically a force but an effect—kind of like your ex’s influence), electromagnetism, and the two nuclear forces, strong and weak.
Massive objects—think stars, black holes, or egos—warp spacetime like a bowling ball on a trampoline. Smaller objects get caught in that bend. That’s what we call gravity. Again: it’s not pulling you down. The Earth is just scooping you up with curved space.
Light, made of photons, doesn’t get caught. It zips around at about 300,000 kilometers per second—fast enough to make all your excuses look slow. Meanwhile, quantum-entangled particles are having long-distance relationships that defy space and time, flipping states instantaneously like cosmic twins finishing each other’s thoughts across the galaxy. Weird? Yes. But that’s quantum physics for you: everything is connected, nothing is local, and nobody fully understands it.
Speaking of not understanding—let’s talk about black holes, those dense, dramatic voids that swallow matter, light, and maybe your last good idea. They’re probably not “holes” at all. They could be portals to other dimensions, storage drives for lost information, or cosmic delete buttons. Whatever they are, they laugh in the face of traditional physics, and we love that for them.
Now back to you. You are made of atoms forged in ancient stars. You, me, fruit flies, and wombats are 90% biologically identical. Yes, you are basically a glorified mammal with a frontal cortex, opposable thumbs, and Wi-Fi. Your brain—mushy and electric—is interpreting reality in such a specific way that you think you’re separate from everything. But you’re not. You're just one node in a vast quantum web where time only moves in one direction (shoutout to the arrow of time) and the only real moment is now.
And here’s the kicker: none of this has anything to do with your happiness.
The universe doesn’t care if you’re having a good day. It doesn’t validate your parking. It doesn’t cry when your heart breaks or light a candle when you’re born. It just is. Energy becomes matter, matter becomes stars, stars explode, and eventually all your atoms get recycled into moss, soup, or the next sentient species.
But before you spiral—here’s the good news: you get to choose how you interpret the ride. Your brain is a meaning-making machine. If the universe doesn’t come with built-in purpose, that doesn’t mean it’s empty. It means you’re free to create your own version of purpose—and love it fiercely.
So the next time you’re contemplating the void, remember: you are a temporary meat-being surfing a quantum ocean inside a galaxy flung across space by a mathematical hiccup. And if that doesn’t put your problems in perspective, try meditating under a tree. Or petting a cat. Or doing Downward Dog in the back of an airplane. Whatever works.
The nature of reality may not revolve around your happiness—but luckily, you do. So lean into the moment, laugh at the absurdity, and keep breathing like it’s the only thing that’s real—because it kind of is.