The Small Screen and the Endless Sky

The Small Screen and the Endless Sky

You are the universe

arguing with the internet—

infinite breath

compressed into a comment box,

galaxies folding themselves

into a blinking cursor.

What is a star

to a thread of replies?

What is silence

to a world that refreshes itself

every second,

hungry for noise?

You carry the weight of oceans

in your chest—

tides that once answered the moon

now answering notifications.

Somewhere within you

a supernova waits,

not to win an argument,

but to burn away

the need to be right.

The internet shouts,

loops, fractures, multiplies—

a thousand mirrors

with no memory of light.

But you—

you remember.

You remember before the signal,

before the surge of voices,

before the first division

of word against word.

You are not the argument.

You are the space

in which it happens.

Let the noise collapse

into its own gravity.

Let the echo exhaust itself.

There is a deeper language

than reply—

a wider field

than debate.

And there,

beyond the scrolling edge of everything,

you are still

the universe. 

Steven G. Lee 

April 28, 2026