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The galaxy is a strange place. Don't you agree?
It's beautiful, there's no doubt about that. With its Telona roses that burn in the land when you're born and its pomegranate blossoms that conceive you. With its lilacs that weave through your hair, and its nectar that you smear on your skin. With its seas that have many voices and its new beginnings often disguised as painful endings, you cannot deny its elegance.
The galaxy is a haven of wildflowers that grow in the darkest parts of you and warm soft stars that lay against your body. The galaxy is a place for people who carry sunshine around their necks and people who plant their bare feet into the ground, wanting to feel everything growing straight through them. The galaxy is an endless place of opportunity for the young who want to hold the world in their hands even if it burns them and for the older who don't know where to put down the dead things they carry.
The galaxy is a symbol of milk and honey, of a bed of roses. The galaxy is a symbol of hope, of peace, of light.
The galaxy is a bundle of fallen stars and elysian fields compressed into a colorful blade. The galaxy is a plethora of heroes draped in solar flares and soft lips. The galaxy is a shared dream of delicate lavender dripped in sunlight and creating a place that people can call home. The galaxy is the Jedi: people dedicated to the Force—to something bigger than themselves—who wear stars like freckles and war like a gentle sheet of white snow.
The Jedi: peacekeepers of the galaxy—our galaxy—and devoted to upholding the peace of the Galactic Republic.
With their swallowed light and touch that defy the cosmos, the Jedi are all mighty. They tread around the galaxy like gods, bestowing knowledge on those in need and leaving a path of gold shimmering behind them. The sun clings to them like clothes, never falling, not even when the beams set and the moon rises in its place. No, instead they burn, they shine, they rise like Aphrodite from her shell as Olympus trembles at her equity. The Jedi are forever chained to themselves and their duty; that's what they are and that's what they have to live with. They aren't knights by choice, but warriors at heart.
There is no emotion, there is peace. There is no ignorance, there is knowledge. There is no passion, there is serenity. There is no chaos, there is harmony. There is no death, there is the Force.
This is the way of the Jedi. This is the way of the light.
But for the light to shine, there must be darkness.
The galaxy is also ugly.
The galaxy is also a museum of things we wish to forget and knives pressed against our jugulars. The galaxy is also an angry dog lurching through flames and the rotting feeling in your flesh when you peel your skin away. The galaxy is also the moon hanging over a planet (a dead thing over a dead thing) and grief as silent as blood dripping from an unstitched wound. The galaxy is also for people who sink in holy sadness and people who stuff their mouths with cherries, hoping to understand what love is but choking on it instead. The galaxy is also stained red with mothers who give birth to pain instead of children and fallen angels who beg God to take the burning feeling out of them.
