Let’s get one thing straight.

I am a star.  Not in the metaphorical sense of a shining bauble to coo over and capture in camera flash, but in the fierce and wild sense of the cosmos.  I burn white-hot, powered by an engine humanity cannot dream of touching, strong enough to alter the very matter of myself, to merge the unmergable atom.  My parents are a solar wind and a nebula, a thing cast out and a thing destroyed, and I am what they have spun me into being as, a thing untouched.

And you are not.  You are tiny.  You have looked up into the sky on your little world and seen the speck of light and named me and drawn me into constellations, but you see a memory of the dead and distant past.  You could not bear my present.  My touch would burn you, my light would blind you, and so you cling to the small light of my past, and I spin my planets and moons in a song you will never hear, and mourn the fact that you could not stand with me as I am.

So next time you wish you could reach up and touch me and make me into that small light, remember: I am a star.  You have not had a hand in my creation save to throw petty stones and place me in pretty pictures with cruel stories, and you will not have a hand in my future.

And to the small light, remember: this is only a distant memory.