A Star Once Whispered

A star once whispered the world’s histories to me, and I listened.
Its light blinked in the vast quiet,
ancient and steady,
as though amused by my silence.
Then, with a soft, knowing laugh, it asked,
“What would you know?”

I smiled at the irony,
a quiet chuckle slipping from my lips.
For I had always known what I would ask.
“Star,” I began,
my voice laced with conviction,
“I would know why knowledge swells the ego
while wisdom humbles the soul,
and what divides the two.
I would know why belief clings to certainty
while faith flourishes in the unknown,
and which is the truer pursuit.
I would know why men choose desire over duty,
why they carve their own hearts for love.
If I could know these things,
I’d hold everything—and yet, nothing.”
I paused, my gaze steady.
“But you, ancient star,
you who have seen all that was and is,
Surely you hold the answers I seek.
Surely, you can guide me.”

The star blinked, its light unyielding,
and for a moment, silence stretched like eternity.
It weighed my words
against the weight of its existence,
until finally, it stirred,
drawing a breath from the infinite.

“You seek the Why, don’t you, young man?”
its luminous voice hummed with an edge of humor.
“You speak with cleverness, with fire,
but surely you know—I cannot answer that.”

A sigh escaped me, heavy with the ache of knowing.
“I know,” I whispered,
my voice soft and resigned.
“The Why is a question with no answer.
A fool’s hope. A thief’s tool.
The Oak, the Turtle, the Mammoth—
they all warned me.
Still, I came to you.
Because you’re a star.
You’ve seen everything beneath the sun.”

The star softened then,
its glow warmer, almost tender.
“Yes,” it said, “but even if you stood here,
where I have watched time unravel,
you would not find the Why.
For Why is not carved into the heavens,
nor is it written in the natural order.
It lives in your heart,
in the chaos of your being,
and you will ask it again and again,
until you find peace within yourself.”

I turned my eyes back to the earth,
a quiet smile curling at the corners of my lips.
Somewhere, deep down,
I had always known what the star would say.

“I must go,” I said,
my voice low but certain,
nodding a farewell.

The star blinked brighter,
a final gesture, a goodbye wrapped in light.
“Oh, and Greg,” it added,
its laughter glimmering like shards of starlight,
“try to stay out of Pandemora this time.”

I smirked,
my feet already descending toward the world below.
“Not a chance,” I whispered.
“Not a chance.”