We Stopped Looking at the Stars

"The sky kept calling. We just stopped listening."

When I was a child, I used to lie flat on the cool grass, staring into the endless black stitched with silver.I didn’t know the names of the constellations.I didn’t need to.

It was enough to wonder.

I would imagine myself riding comets, whispering secrets to distant moons, dancing among worlds too wild for textbooks to explain.Every blink of a star felt personal—like a message meant for me alone.

Back then, the sky was a sacred place.A cathedral without walls.An invitation without end.

But somewhere along the way, we traded the infinite for the immediate.We lost the language of awe and learned the grammar of algorithms.We scroll through artificial stars now—tiny, flickering screens that promise meaning but deliver distraction.

When did we stop looking up?

When did we decide that information was more important than wonder?That data was richer than dreaming?

There is a hunger inside us that no download can satisfy.A call in our blood that no app can answer.

The stars still sing.We’ve just muted the music.

We tell ourselves we are too busy, too tired, too practical.But maybe…Maybe we are just too afraid.

Because to look up is to remember how small we are.And how extraordinary.

It’s to feel the ancient pulse of the universe breathing through our bones. It’s to realize that the real miracles are still unfolding, night after night, beyond our control, beyond our comprehension.

We have not outgrown wonder.We have abandoned it.

And the sky is still waiting.

Tonight—Put down the phone.Step outside.Tilt your head back.

Let the stars remind you:You are not just a product of this earth. You are a child of the cosmos, carrying the memory of light in your veins.

Wonder is not lost. It is waiting.