Some nights it feels like we’re all just faint signals slipping through the dark…
too quiet to be heard, too stubborn to disappear.
We keep orbiting the memories we should’ve let burn out long ago,
but they glow anyway — small, cruel stars that refuse to die.
Maybe that’s what we’ve become as a people:
a wandering echo of who we used to be,
drifting further from the noise we created,
closer to the truths we never wanted to face —
that progress is fragile,
that connection is fleeting,
that the world moves faster than our hearts can follow.
We carry the weight of generations,
their hopes, their mistakes,
their unfinished stories woven into our own.
And still we search for meaning in the static,
for direction in a universe that never promised clarity.
And yet… we keep moving.
Even when it hurts…