I have always believed that everyone is born with souls made of stardust-- transparent, ever-shifting stardust. Your experiences, the people you meet, the places you go to-they change the colors of your stardust soul to become what your own unique shape and shade.

You could choose to share some of your stardust soul to every person you meet, hopefully mixing theirs with yours to bring to bloom more beautiful colors to life within them. You could tear away some of your stardust and scatter it into the void. You could choose to take from others their stardust, leaving jagged tears and void spaces in their personal galaxies. Sometimes what is left is filled by your own stardust shifting around to patch over the lack. Sometimes it’s plugged over by a new infusion of stardust.

Regardless, I would like to think that everybody has their own living, breathing stardust galaxy-- shifting colors, shapes, compositions. Every one is unique, every one is beautiful and full of stories. Then again, I have never seen value in my stardust soul, unless it were useful for anything. What use is beauty, what use are stories, when they do nothing for me? A thing of beauty without use is disgusting. I have no need for it.

So I pour out my stardust soul into the world. I pour it out and out and somehow, there is always more of me to pour out. I want it all out of me-- the jagged edges, the nebulous clouds-- plugging holes, mending tears, until all I have is a fathomless void. I have no need for stardust.

There is peace in living in emptiness. There is rest in being one with the void in between the galaxies.

There is satisfaction in seeing the world made whole, at the cost of your own self. There is poetry in being formless, in reflecting others like a mirror-lake and seeing them shine brighter.

Maybe someday I can say these words and finally believe it.