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WHEN YOU LOOK up at the sky on a clear night, the naked eye is able to see about 9,096 stars. Nine-thousand-and-ninety-six. They shine in the reflection of your eyes, winking at you, twinkling under the admiration of the viewer. They crave validation. The need to hear someone, anyone, say; 'the stars look beautiful tonight'.
However many time those words pass your lips, does not matter. The 9,096 stars in your vision are all dead. They've been dead for quite a while. Your eyes are picking up the thousand year old carcasses. The projection of what used to be.
But your eyes don't realise that. You don't make the connection that you're actually just looking at a black sheet. You don't know that the stars have died and burnt up.
Stars are funny like that.
They shine and shine, hoping for somebody to see. They want to be noticed. To be loved. But they're not. The stars are ignored and left to the side to dwell and die on their own. Stars put up a façade and are praised by the viewers looking at the mask.
Stars live. Stars die.
It's the cycle of life.
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