The Universe is Alive and it Found Me in a Parking Lot

I wrote this one several years ago, and I credit it with being the first poem to make my dad cry. (Sorry, dad.) I was coming out of my depression when I wrote it, and I was feeling very grateful to be alive. Whenever I’m feeling those big feelings, I notice that I tend to categorize the universe as a voice. Not necessarily a being, but more of a living concept. Anyway.

The meaning of life is as follows: 
“The answer is, nobody knows.” 
But the galaxy is expanding-- not hollow--
Into something, wherever it goes. 

I don’t know why it’s making room, 
And for what, I’d never guess. 
It’s chaotic and magic, and infinite loom
Weaving a beautiful mess. 

And somehow, I still matter 
(It’s what I’m made of, in fact) 
The void hasn’t destroyed me--the latter
And I assumed it never looked back. 

Until I was bathed in the sputtering glow
Of old street lamps in the dark
In an empty space where cars usually go
The universe came, and it parked.

It’s made of Nothing but it’s quite big, you know
And it looked at me and it smiled.
 “I’m proud that I made you,” it said. 
“You are supposed to exist, small child.”

I’m very inspired by the cosmic. I think this poem was about striking the balance between people who feel hope and joy because they have a purpose, and people who find hope and joy for being insignificant. I’m someone who fits into the middle ground: by all means, do we matter! But that doesn’t make everything quite as important as it might sound like.