Of what I call God,
And fools call Nature.
For a little while, when I was younger, I was in the habit of saying the universe wants me to do this or the universe wants me to do that: when facing a difficult decision, often pertaining to a certain someone, I would try to take the auguries, and count birds or observe omens to discern some sort of pattern to the world around me, a sign that the universe wanted me to do this or that. And I would say as much. Others would do this as well. A day came in the summer, in an uncertain cafe, when a friend of mine told me a story about an ugly mutual acquaintance who was trying to seduce her and whom she had run into, coincidentally, a number of times over the past few days. What is the universe trying to tell me? she asked, signifying the insignificant. I don’t remember saying anything in reply to her rhetorical question, I probably shrugged, pouted, pursed my lips, raised my shoulders—but I did certainly think, and all I remember thinking was how idiotic it sounded, that the entirety of creation was taking an interest in the ugly guy you happen to be attracted to. Thereafter it became obvious that all such auguries are totally subjective. Thereafter I lost interest in trying to discern the machinations of the universe.