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Living Through the Metaphor (Warning: this post explores the meanderings of the metaphoric mind) | S.D. Henke

Every aspect of my life from the moment I wake up to the moment my head hits the pillow at night is an opportunity to pay attention. It is an occasion to look inward and outward. It is a space where I can see my life in the details, a metaphorical rendering, and a chance to see the stars. Naming this Blog,  Of Quirks and Quasars wasn’t an accident. It was in part to express how I see the world through something like a telescopic lens. A stream of consciousness I choose not to ignore. From each new angle, zooming in, zooming out, I write the thoughts that come and take the time to move away and allow the distance in the orbit to encircle my message. This blog is a breath between views as I move through this existence.

I remember as a child looking up at the sky and deciding with all my heart that my imagination was a real, tangible landscape, and that what I couldn’t always see didn’t mean it was a fantasy. This concept of reality made all the sense in the world then as much as it astonishes me today. To believe that what I imagined lived up there could be real and abiding right here. That there could be a dense mass of unseen creation in stories. It made me hold on to the vastness of potential and that which I had yet to explore through my writing.

Through this limitless wonder I’ve set out on a course to write the stories that encapsulate what I’ve come to understand about these infinite realities, hyperaware that immense potential lives in our stories. When we invent and imagine, we ourselves become an exercise in creation. And in this space the matter that rests within us is how we return to the stars.

It is a rare event to bear witness to something as seen through that view. A sight unseen. The quasar kind.

Quasars are the brightest and most distant objects in the known universe. Fistfuls of opportunity. They are old souls harkening reality in a latent stage of invisible forces awakening. I imagine them as the messengers that send us signals. We can see them even in the black hole of where we are in place and time in the now, the past, and the future. The messages come from far off in the distance, a quasi-stellar radio source a billion times as massive as the sun. Knowing this, we can keep reaching. They are real. They exist, and for that, we can’t lose sight of that which is the message in us.

As writers, we all have an active galactic nucleus waiting inside. Our thoughts, our ponderings are not mere words, but distinctive messages. Themes of hope, of love, pain, and grace. Our words are sacred and holy. They arrived in us so we could pay homage. Either we take the vow to share them or we do not, but either way, the message exists. It waits. It holds on, and if we listen very carefully, we ourselves can carry them to the edges of the universe.

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