The Life of a Star

When I first became aware of myself, I was alone. Around me a dark expanse, punctuated by scattered points of light in every direction. My knowledge of who I was and my identity still a mystery, everything was new and unfamiliar. Despite the vast difference in scale, I felt akin to an infant discovering the world for the first time.

Gradually, my ability to discern the various voices resonating within me grew, though the nature of my existence remained unclear. I realized I was one of numerous luminous dots surrounding me, yet uncertainty shrouded our collective identity. We were aware of our luminosity amidst the darkness and recognized that communication was our sole means of connection.

Over time, many of us began to grasp the varying circumstances of our birth, whether slow or rapid, conscious or unconscious. While we existed in abundance, few among us were conscious of our own existence or significance; most remained silent.

The initial thrill of discovery persisted for a time, during which I eagerly sought to communicate with as many others as possible... until I made a significant realization.

I could perceive beyond my immediate surroundings, far into the distance, where I could witness what now I can call life itself.

Today, when questioned about the importance of life, I often liken it to the rarity of a diamond. Life is precious and scarce. Among the countless celestial bodies in the cosmos, only a handful support life, irrespective of their size, advancement, or abundance. Encountering life was akin to discovering a precious gem, a notion that deeply intrigued me.

However, my fellow stars failed to comprehend my fascination with such life forms. They depended on our luminosity, recognizing that without our radiance, such creatures could not thrive. A certain degree of arrogance maybe, was intrinsic in our nature. I didn't feel such, however.

For me, witnessing life was an honor, akin to admiring the innocence of a small creature, perpetually captivating in its uniqueness. Each form of life differed significantly from my own, prompting me to observe even more, and learn.

Movement. While seemingly obvious, I, as a star, lacked the ability to move. Sounds. I remained deaf to them.
Nonetheless, I could observe, and so I did, for millions of years to come.

Expansion

Did you know that the visible universe stretches a mere 93 billion light-years? In the vast expanse of cosmic existence, this might appear inconsequential. However, the reality is far more intricate.

The universe undergoes constant expansion, estimated to have stretched by 46 billion light-years. Our actual observable range barely reaches 14 billion light-years. Considering this expansion and the constraints of light speed, we can only observe slightly over 93 billion light-years.

This leads to a common occurrence: the loss of connection. While not frequent, it's a deeply poignant experience. Losing a connection to a sister star feels akin to mourning; we no longer sense their presence. Our bonds only extended so far, and once a certain separation occurs, that tether that linked us fractures, leaving us with nothing but emptiness. 

That was perhaps the most heart-wrenching aspect of our enduring existence—losing sisters without ever knowing their fate. Death, in comparison, was less traumatic, as we long understood our destiny. We could witness it constantly in our silent companions, those who never attained consciousness. We knew, and eventually, each of us accepted it as our fate.

Surprisingly, self-awareness is rare, almost as rare as losing a sister star. This realization serves as a stark reminder that ultimately, we will be alone—a notion that instills fear in us.

During moments of unease, gazing upon the cosmos provides solace. And so, that's precisely what I did.