Every day I try to be in communication with the universe in an

Host: The desert was alive with silence — a silence so vast it seemed to have weight, a silence that swallowed sound and magnified thought. The sky stretched unbroken, a deep indigo veil scattered with cold stars, each one burning with the patience of eternity.

A small fire flickered between two travelers — its flames reaching upward like hands trying to touch the heavens. Jack sat cross-legged beside it, his face carved by shadow and light, his eyes fixed on the glowing embers. Jeeny sat across from him, her knees drawn to her chest, her dark hair unbound, glinting faintly with sand and starlight.

The desert wind moved softly through them — the kind that feels like the universe breathing.

Jeeny: “Paulo Coelho once said, ‘Every day I try to be in communication with the universe in an unconscious way.’”
Her voice was calm, fragile — almost reverent. “What do you think that means, Jack? Communication with the universe… unconsciously?”

Jack: (dryly) “Sounds like meditation dressed up as poetry. Or maybe just another way of saying he talks to himself a lot.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “You always find the human behind the mystic.”

Jack: “Because the mystic’s just a human trying to sound cosmic. Let’s be honest — the universe doesn’t answer back.”

Jeeny: “Doesn’t it?”
Her gaze lifted toward the sky. “Maybe it’s not about answers. Maybe it’s about resonance. When Coelho says ‘communication,’ he doesn’t mean words. He means alignment — the way the tide listens to the moon, or how a flower faces the sun without thinking.”

Jack: (grinning) “So you’re saying you talk to stars now?”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. I’m saying the stars talk through us — when we’re quiet enough to notice.”

Host: The fire crackled softly, sparks spiraling upward into the vast, unblinking night. For a moment, it seemed as though the sky swallowed them whole — two small souls flickering beneath an eternal dome.

Jack: “You know, I’ve never trusted that idea — that the universe has some secret script we’re all supposed to interpret. Sounds comforting, but also arrogant. Like thinking every gust of wind is personal.”

Jeeny: “It is personal — not because the wind means something, but because we do.”
Her eyes gleamed with conviction. “The universe doesn’t send messages, Jack. It reflects them. What you see in it is what you’ve been trying to say to yourself.”

Jack: (leaning forward) “So the universe is just a mirror for our own projections?”

Jeeny: “A mirror that doesn’t judge. Think about it — you look up at the same stars as every poet, every wanderer, every lost lover who’s ever lived. You see loneliness, someone else sees guidance. The stars didn’t change — the soul did.”

Host: The wind shifted, carrying with it the faint scent of sage and dust. The fire leaned to one side, its light brushing across Jack’s features — the lines of skepticism softening into something like thought.

Jack: “When I was a kid, I used to lie on the roof at night. My father told me the stars were the eyes of people who’d loved us once. I didn’t believe him, but I wanted to.”

Jeeny: (smiling gently) “Maybe you did believe him — just not consciously.”

Jack: “That’s Coelho’s whole point, isn’t it? Unconscious communication — the part of us that still listens when the logic shuts up.”

Jeeny: “Yes. The universe speaks in the language of silence. We’re just too loud to hear it most of the time.”

Host: A lone coyote cried somewhere beyond the dunes — a sound raw, ancient, haunting. The fire wavered. Jeeny closed her eyes, tilting her face toward the sky, and for a long moment neither of them spoke.

Jeeny: “You ever notice how silence has tones?”

Jack: (curious) “Tones?”

Jeeny: “Yes. There’s the silence of waiting, the silence of peace, the silence of awe. Right now, this one — it feels like listening.”

Jack: “Listening to what?”

Jeeny: “Everything. And nothing.”

Host: The stars pulsed faintly overhead, their light older than the concept of speech itself. The fire hissed, collapsing in on itself, the wood glowing deep orange — like a heartbeat seen through skin.

Jack: “You think that’s what Coelho meant — that we’re not supposed to control the dialogue, just participate in it?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. You don’t pray to the universe. You belong to it. You don’t need to speak to be heard.”

Jack: “That’s beautiful. And frustrating.”

Jeeny: “So is life.”
Her smile was soft, sad. “The universe doesn’t give us what we want, Jack. It gives us reflections — and chances to listen again.”

Host: He leaned back on his elbows, gazing at the stars — not with awe, but with a kind of reluctant surrender. The rhythm of her words and the hum of the desert began to blend, until even skepticism sounded like reverence.

Jack: “Maybe that’s why we dream. Dreams are the unconscious letters we write back.”

Jeeny: “Yes,” she whispered. “That’s the language of the universe — metaphor. Every dream, every coincidence, every moment of déjà vu is its way of saying, I’m still here.”

Jack: “And what does it say to you?”

Jeeny: “That nothing’s random. That every pain, every joy, every encounter is an echo.”

Jack: (half-laughing) “An echo of what?”

Jeeny: “Of the conversation we were meant to be having all along.”

Host: The fire dimmed to embers. The sky widened, cold and magnificent. The two of them sat there — two brief sparks of consciousness beneath an infinite sprawl of time — the firelight painting their faces with equal parts gold and mystery.

Jack: “You really believe we can talk to the universe, don’t you?”

Jeeny: “No.”
She looked up, eyes glimmering like twin reflections of the stars. “I believe the universe has been talking all along — and that sometimes, without meaning to, we finally start to listen.”

Host: The wind rose again, sweeping the last embers into the night, scattering them like small stars reborn. The desert swallowed the sound, leaving only the pulse of existence itself — quiet, eternal, alive.

And then, softly, like the closing breath of a prayer, the Host’s voice drifted through the dark:

Host: “Paulo Coelho’s words remind us that not all communication needs language. That the universe speaks not in thunder but in stillness, not in miracles but in patterns — and that the most honest dialogue we’ll ever have is the one we didn’t mean to start. In the end, to live is to listen. And to listen is to belong.”

The stars shimmered once more — distant, ancient, forgiving — and the desert, vast and unknowable, whispered back.