It wasn’t always like this.
There used to be more.
Sometime far from the beginning, creation, seemingly too curious to be satisfied with mere existence, begat self-conception.
The same lifeless stardust, the same burning energy of infinity coalesced into the white-hot presence of life itself. And for a while, everything moved in the wake of our significance.
But, forever true to form, things change.
Whether by decree or by some unconscious turning of the tides of minds, substance seemed to fall from favour. Insatiable hunger became the impetus for instant gratification, to the detriment of all else. A waste of time. A waste of life.
And, as greed and ignorance formed an enviable bond, there was a moment felt around the world. The passing of something.
We shun empathy, unwilling to entertain the concept of equal ground at the expense of the possibility of being the victor. We find it’s hard to listen when we’ve got so much to preach.
After all this time, still we allow ourselves to be overtaken by the mad desire to beat the rest at the human race.
So now, tired of what we’ve made for ourselves here, we turn from introspection to escapism.
Every civilisation in history has turned to the stars in longing.
But whereas we used to look for meaning, now we yearn for release from the prison we built ourselves, trying to make a home.
Still we dream our dreams like boys as we look out to stars on the outer reaches of observable space. Blessed, as we are, with reflections of their past lives. Long gone now, but preserved for us by the lethargy of light within the context of forever.
And as we look upon those stars, we see ourselves. Long since dead by our own hands. Preserved for time being as the amusement of a universe made conscious. An ironic embodiment of self-awareness.
And we still cry at night, instead of making any change at all.