Celestial Chaos

Life, The Universe and Everything

Beloved,

You’ve probably heard this before. Probably definitely asked yourself: Does anyone know what to do? Does anyone know what they’re doing?

I mean, it is an existential question. I’m sure you, at some point in your journey of self-awareness, pondered the question and felt the cold dread of existence crawl up your neck.

Good. So you know those moments, when there are pockets of silence, of heavy quiet, where you feel the essence of your being settle in your bones? In those passing moments of the golden hour where you feel so young, so soft, so golden, and everything’s possible.

Then it whooshes back in. The noise, the people, the news, the daily toil. The anxiety swinging to join you as you wake up every morning. Wondering what all of this is for. All this breathing in and breathing out. What is it for, this life that I am living?

Being 14, 15, 16 was a time of tearing myself up and stitching myself back. Call me Frankenstein. I’m the monster and the creator. The feelings were so heavy, so tasty. Half of the time, I didn’t know if I was real. The monotonous living, the droning on, left me feeling weightless—perhaps this is a simulation. I would look at my face and forget it in the next second. I went around faceless. Nameless. A forgotten thing. It was terror not knowing if you’re real.

So I tore and stitched myself back up. Tried to look for myself in the curves of my eyebrows and the shape of my lips.

Being real, choosing to not be a drifting thing, means you need substance. You need weight. You can find things that pull you down into one place. The question is this: Do you want to be held down? Would you rather drift away and fade away? There is peace in that, sure.

I wanted to feel real to myself. To the world around me. Listening to music, the laughter, watching in slow motion as they smiled with their eyes, their hearts. Love.

Love was the key. Mostly. There was still the curiosity. The crushing existential crisis. But love was the weight. As flightless and substantial, world-ending as it is. You see, you can fall in love with the fresh air of the dawn or the particular shade of the sunset. Those quiet spaces of time. The beat of your heart, listening to your blood flow in your veins. The music in your ears, the wind in your face. You can fall in love with those.

You can fall in love with people. Their stumbling, fumbling humanity. The fragility. You can fall in love with that too.

So I learned to remember my face. To hold hands with my friends, to say “I love you” when I felt it.

Uncertainty. Choices are the drivers of fate. Of destiny. If you believe in those things. We don’t know what we’re doing, but we are doing something regardless.

And so I lived the ages; 17 then 18 then 19– I found the answers lay not in tearing myself. No, the chaos still lies within. The chaos was everywhere. It was everything. It was the first time I found that we may actually never know the answer to the question of life, the universe, and everything.

You mean to tell me we’re all actually winging it?

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Knowing how to start lives anew within myself was one thing, but doing that in actuality with people and the world is different. Sometimes things won’t make sense, you won’t be the same person when you wake up in the morning. And that’s okay. You can be everything and anything you want, you see?

That’s the conclusion I came to. There is no order to the chaos. No limit.

To define is to limit. You can be as vast and unapologetically infinite as the universe.

Celestial Chaos is something. What it is, I’m sure it will grow into itself, as I’m sure all things do. It’s a natural thing to grow. To start anew.

I started this newsletter with The Written Worlds, which still exists but no longer embodies my current self. It didn’t die. Just transfigured.

The Celestial Chaos is not a journey of self-discovery. It’s a glorification of the process. The romanticization of the mundane. It seeks to embody the chaos of becoming. It is everything. All of it. All at once.

The fear of dying is almost the same as the fear of becoming. In becoming, you’re the blinking cursor in a blank space, waiting to start. Needing to start but not sure what to be. What words to start with. Well.

Well.

Don’t worry about it, beloved. Just the first letter, and the rest will come. Or you can draw instead. No one says you have to write, anyways. See? No limits. No laws. Utter chaos.

There is no shame in not knowing. In uncertainties. No harm in starting over again and again. Here is where you find me– attempting to bring forth something– something celestial.

Welcome Soul Wanderer. I hope we can find some semblance of chaos in the process.

Xoxo,

Harriet,

Celestial Chaos.