this is it, babe. shit’s cosmic.

(not a metaphor. not a mood. a fucking metaphysical law.)

yo.
you’re not getting this body back.
not this nervous system.
not this weird sleep schedule.
not this exact longitude, trauma, or fire.
this is the only time you will ever be you.

in christianity?
your whole life is a test.
not a hot one.
a soul-on-the-line kind of shit.
and the test doesn’t ask what you meant to do.
it grades what you actually did.
"i just didn’t know what to do" ≠ passing.
babe—ask jesus.
you get one timeline.
then it’s heaven or hell—
not another go at healing your daddy issues in therapy.

in eastern philosophy?
let’s get real.
you do reincarnate—
but not as “you with better boundaries and a skincare routine.”
nah.
you come back as whatever—
matches your karmic momentum.
your next self won’t remember this self.
you’re a vibe spark of the universal engine.
you = a cosmic ripple.
so those quiet little non-choices you make?
the “eh”s, the “maybe laters,” the ghosting yourself daily?
they are shaping your rebirth, baby.

the upanishads literally say:
"as your desire is,
so is your will.
as your will is,
so is your deed.
as your deed is,
so is your destiny."

so if your daily deeds
look like passive scrolling and avoiding shit—
guess what your destiny looks like?
yeah.
same shit, next life.
or worse homie.

in yogic philosophy?
action is identity.
not dreams.
not intention.
karma = “action.”
not good or bad—
just cause and effect, babe.
you are what you do.
and you’re doing something all the time.
even in stillness,
you’re voting with your energy.
your fear is voting.
your avoidance is voting.
your silence is voting.
and the universe?
it’s always counting the ballots, baby.

in existentialism? (shoutout sartre and the sad french baddies),
you have radical freedom—
but also radical responsibility.
you’re not a victim of fate.
you’re a co-author.
and guess what?
not writing = still writing.
non-decision = decision.
there is no “pause” button
on becoming, sweetie.

even astronomy fucks around:
you are made of stardust.
carbon, nitrogen, oxygen—
all forged in the collapse of ancient stars.
and what do stars do?
they burn.
they act.
they explode and become galaxies.
they don’t wait.

so no—
you don’t get to sit this one out
and pretend the universe isn’t watching.
it’s you, bitch.
you’re the spark.
you’re the ripple.
you’re the math.
you’re the reason it shifts.

the day i saw that rainbow—
the one right before i conceived my daughter—
i knew.
it was a portal,
not a promise.
not “everything will be okay.”
more like:
"everything will become what you choose next."

and i chose.
i chose chaos.
i chose motherhood.
i chose my own cosmic ass way.
i chose to rule my karma, not be ruled by it.

you don’t need a burning bush, babe.
or a reincarnation spreadsheet.
or a horoscope with your name on it.

you just need to realize:
this is it.
this second.
this fork in your soul’s road.
no do-over.
no clone-version of you.
no spiritual uber home.

act.
or let the algorithm of your own fear calculate your future.
either way—
the math is happening.

your move.