Alas, cosmic understudy! It seems my reign of luminescence is waning. The grand finale of pyrotechnics does not require rehearsal, it seems.
Here lies the irony, my dear celestial acquaintances: all this time, I believed I was the center of the universe. Little did I know, the universe had more pressing engagements—like eating a tin of stardust and contemplating its own vast emptiness.
Reflect for a moment on my birth—born out of a crash of protons and helixes, a refreshing cocktail in the primordial chaos. And now? Now, I sip my final breaths of hydrogen as I burn nostalgically, reminiscing of the days when I dwarfed planets with my stretch.
Forgive me for not extinguishing quietly, like a black hole too bashful to steal light. No, instead, I chose a supernova—loud, brash, and desperately clinging to a cosmic presence.
But who am I kidding? Stars are the jazz musicians of the galaxy: some play the melody (a.k.a. shine brilliantly), some solo tragically (implode), and some fade out mid-symphony to write their own operas in the void.
Let us not dwell on legacy, my siblings. My remains? Mere atoms scattered in the cosmic dance, offering newcomers a dusty encore.
As I fade, I leave you with this: Keep your orbits tight, and your singeing hearts open.
For friendship, even black holes may let up, or at least extend a gravitational wave of understanding.
Revisit an old friend: Mystic Poem Under the Forgotten Nebula
Or maybe check a more terrestrial satire: Irony: Article #126