Since the dawn of Earth, both animals and humans alike have tilted their heads towards the heavens.

Not out of curiosity, but out of hunger.

The stars have always been an unreachable manna; beautiful, radiant and infinite. They're the banquet that the sky offers, set before us in the way of a starry night, with just one cursed prohibition: no permission to hold.

And still, we adore it.

We let their light stain our retinas, we whisper wishes as they fall in flames and convince ourselves they're listening.

What is stargazing, if not humans contemplating their lack?

The soul, aching for more, whispers: “see? That's who I am. That's where I belong. Among the brightest stars.”

But the stars don't reply. They never have and never will. They simply burn, their blazing flames indifferent to our pleading, to our hopes. To the simplicity of our lives. What worth is a mere human, in comparison with a shiny, giant star in all its glory?

So we keep stargazing.

What else can we do?

What can a yearning, simple mortal do, but imagine the intoxicating taste of the unreachable?