monologue of a star

I see it all from up here. See you down there, wishing on me to fix things. Get your wife to forgive you. Find that money to pay the electricity bill. Get you some love from that girl who sits on the bus opposite you every day, playing with her hair like you want to play with her hair. You want her? Ask her out you loser. Get a little candle light going. Buy her a drink. You want it all easy. You want to be guided across oceans and in your hearts and you want it all without giving anything back. You want it all without understanding anything. You want to lie underneath us and have the meaning of life beamed down on you. Except you don’t see and you don’t listen. You keep living these tiny lives, looking up at the answers to it all but seeing nothing. We’re burning gasses, full of light but existing in darkness, some of us alone, some of us in clusters, all of us heading towards death, running out of fuel, something we can’t imagine happening but it does, it does. And the end catches us by surprise even though the whole thing takes billions of years. Some of us go to black holes and that possibility scares the crap out of us because none of us knows why, none of us knows what’s on the other side or why it happens. We know that now is all there is. That what’s important is the light coming from the bodies next to you, that you got to treat those bodies right so that when the darkness comes for you they might shine a little light your way. I tell you that but you’re lying underneath us singing about twinkling, wishing hard for all the wrong things.