The sun dying was nobody's fault.
Whenever I saw another planet of mine being engulfed and erased from existence, that's what I always told myself. The star was the epicenter of all my wrongness and was the bastion of all my shortcomings, perceived or otherwise. However, as time went on, the eyes of the child that gazed upon this unhurried oblivion felt great shame in what it was allowing. From one stratosphere to the next, all that was and what could've been were consumed by this malformed calamity that was birthed by my imperfections and transgressions. From the moment I was born, the stars above were my domain. Yet I wilfully decided not to tend to this garden. The grass was overgrown, and the locusts ravaged all the sustenance that this garden could've given. All of this was by my own will.
The inevitability of my downfall was a cardinal sin that had followed me from the moment my very being was plucked from the primordial cosmos and thrown onto this misbegotten rock. The sin I couldn't describe but knew all too well was forever with me, growing larger and more inhospitable as time went on. The malice, berating, and dismissal from others were my penance. Surely, each planet bombarded by an unfortunate meteor shower must've done something to anger the powers that be, should there be any. Or said power was a disembodied and feral karmic vassal of an indifferent plane of existence. Who even knows at this point?
The sun's death was my fault, with each passing day an unfortunate society on an unexplored world being obliterated by this unending supernova. What could've been? What should've been? All being erased by what was, which was brought upon by my sickening and voracious nature. Going from one planet to the next, culling all life in preparation for the all-devouring Galactus-like world-ender. The inevitability was horrible. It was the truth. It was shame.
The civilisations that went up in dust stood no chance. They weren't supposed to. They couldn't fight nature because it was, of course, inevitable. Somewhere at the beginning of it all, I believed that this world-ender was my erred diabolical creation. A "fate" that proved how rotten I was, even as an innocent. Somewhere along the way, my omniscient seat high above this dotted canvas of existence was stolen from me. The supernova was all I could see—erasing all in its path and slowly ushering in the great age of silence.
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When the great silence settled in, I thought this folly's existence would finally end. So many lives were lost by my hand, by my star. One planet had scientists and engineers that would've eventually built dimensional gates that would send you to the end of the universe and back within a day. Another planet had artists who spent their days gazing at the sky and weaving those landscapes into songs and wax lyrics over the hums of the valley or the choir. So much was lost in this galaxy-wide purge. The great slumber was finally here and these eyelids grew weary of gazing at the abyss that was left behind. Like the sunset over the horizon, the light from these eyes would die out for good this time.
The silence was beautiful. Hollow, yet comforting. For a short time. The planets were gone, yet I saw a bright dot off in the distance. A dot that I knew all too well. Another star had taken the place of what once was. This is impossible. This shouldn't be possible. Then against my own will, I felt myself being pulled back by an unseen force. I spiralled off for what felt like an eternity in a single moment. The dot had disappeared, but what took its place was a sight I'd never seen before: A planetary nebula—dust from what used to be, swirling and mixing in undisturbed and amorphous patterns. These clouds had diverged and converged at multiple nexuses. At the eye of all of these storms, I saw stars forming. Stars that were beyond my control yet were unmistakably my own. This felt like chaos that preceded, resided, and will continue beyond my egoistic existence.
The wonder of this discovery went hand-in-hand with the sensation I felt from the supernova that ended it all. The pond used to be the ocean until it wasn't. A terrifying yet oddly freeing realisation. The dust of the star that once was has begun to reform and reshape itself into something else. What it might be is a mystery but it'll be born and die all the same. Again and again. As many times as this existence wills it to.
The sun dying was nobody's fault.
I used to believe in that. I still do. In the past, I thought it was by my hand alone. Yet now, it's by everyone's and nobody's will all at the same. A sky with a sun that we all share but is always out of our reach, raining down on us and scorching us all in the same breath. The sun I saw all those years ago is still mine and mine alone in the silence of the night. The shame is still there, but it's a bit lighter now. My downfall is not so easily surmounted. Countless stars need to die and be reborn before that can ever happen. If it'll ever happen.
The sun dying was nobody's fault.
In time, when you find yourself in that silence, I hope you can be forgiven.