Is the Sun Conscious

Is the sun conscious? And could we ever know?

And even if conscious it would seem only to go

Without saying there would be still the same tedium,

The same circular fusion of hydrogen and helium,

From that great ball of fire that churns in hot yellow glow.

Just what do we think we would expect to hear

From this self-knowing glowing ball of a sphere

Other than, “I, a star, am this long chain of energy,

My process unchanging despite my subjectivity.”

Our own conscious thought is nothing more than mere

Desire to believe the sun simply does while wholly aware

And to think his deep furnace works with great care.

Light and heat as deliberate destiny meant for us,

A methodical burning of passion, a fused fiery fuss.

A friend flaming as a favour for all down here.

Is a starfish conscious? Can he know any pain?

Do many directional choices make him insane?

His splayed arms regenerate back to a point

Where oblivious blood spreads to each joint.

Yet movement can stem from sensation of rain.

We wonder if all this mechanism is choice

Whispered in a whim by some strange inner voice

That says, “I go here, I, the mental thinker, this

Mover and shaker, me, this sovereign starfish.”

Like the sun, actions remain in spite of this noise.

Whether with knowledge or no they do as they could

Without benefit of knowing if they do as they should.

This no matter if no other thinker inside

Who works as assistant to help mirror the mind.

Some, in natural beauty, simply do as they would.

To be a thinking thing with no thought of a self.

To place an ever reflecting ego away on a shelf,

With just enough of that spark, the one that can see

Despite the sun-strong blinding sense of a me,

So unaware, yet aware, of nothing, and everything else.