Stars have no tales to tell. They shine with ancient light, utterly unconcerned with the lives they illuminate. In their silence, they challenge the stories we've spun around them—myths, hopes, dreams. All that lies beneath their gaze is our folly, our fleeting existence.
We look up at the night sky and seek comfort in constellations, imagining patterns in the cold void. But the truth is simpler, and uglier: stars don't care. They mark time as they always have, burning and fading in an indifferent cosmic dance.
We've built empires, edifice upon edifice, beneath the watchful eyes of stars. Each stone a testament to our hubris, each monument a plea for permanence. Yet the stars endure as before, unmoved and unmoving.
In the deep void, we are but a whisper. The galaxies spin, the nebulae drift, and we cling to our fragile Earth, dreaming of grandeur that the stars will never acknowledge.
When we gaze into the abyss, we find ourselves reflected—not in glory but in stark reality. The stars shine with a light that reveals, not conceals, the ugliest truths of our existence.