Fish out of water

Sometimes I just want to burst into a million particles so the universe can breathe me in like vapor.

I don't know much about atomic science; in fact, I don't even know if it's called "atomic science" or if there is some other, longer, barely pronounceable term to describe the study of the little pieces that make up the bigger pieces. What I do know is that electrons, protons and neutrons have complex inter-relationships that resemble mini galaxies, and that as you pull away, you see more and more tiny galaxies, and then sets of galaxies, and at some point, with enough perspective, you see a human fingernail. Or a chair leg. With more distance, you see an entire human, a room, a house, a country, a planet, a galaxy, a universe and, after that, who knows - but the pattern suggests that you are a little piece of something much bigger than yourself. Everything around you is a piece of it too, and somehow we are all stitched together like some bizarre patchwork quilt.

I only started thinking this way a few days ago - Tuesday it was, I think - when I was chatting with a friend and a fish fell from the ceiling.