Untitled – Ruby Nebula

January 3, 2026

The stars watch me.
The moon watches me.
And I move through this world as if made of glass.

Invisible.
Untouched.
Seen only by the sky.

Sometimes I think the only way to reach upward—to thread my fingers through those bright, indifferent lights—is to lie very still, to let the earth press its ear to my chest. To be held by something that does not ask me to explain myself. To be understood without language.

I don’t know how this knowing works. I only feel it. As if the stars are not objects but witnesses. As if they have been waiting, patient and unblinking, for me to notice them noticing me.

Perhaps that is why I feel the pull.
That drag in my bones.
That quiet gravity.

When I close my eyes, I imagine another vantage point. A place where I am no longer looking up, but out. Where I am small and endless at the same time. Where I can watch humanity the way the stars do—without judgment, without demand—only recognition.

I want to be something that keeps others company in the dark.

When the world feels made entirely of violence and sorrow, I lift my eyes to the sky and remember how vast everything is. How brief. How strange. My pain shrinks in the presence of that immensity—not erased, but softened. Made bearable by awe.

The universe does not speak to me, but it listens.
And for now, that is enough.