We Are Stars

The stars have a message to them that I feel isn't to be deciphered, but instead to be read and puzzled over and never to be understood. They are a poem above our eyes, the stars; they're the story of time and they have no lesson other than constellation. Maybe that's the curse of mankind, to gaze forever at our purpose but to never put it into words or actions, only arrangements that fit our needs. So we act out like annoyed children, striking at one another, ourselves, screaming for an answer or screaming our own lunatic answers. We try to scream louder than everyone else. Because of this I'm confused, and I think everyone around me is living their own clarified yet unsatisfactory opinion, but that's just my own. Our main problem is that we don't understand each other. Understanding is a vague and difficult thing to comprehend (comprehension is understanding's twin). Understanding has a pinch of acceptance in the mixture with it. My own culture is simply my understanding of the way things are and should be, as is everyone else's. Maybe that's why people always fight with each other. Cultures are understandings, but understandings are not culture. Understandings are painfully lonely feelings in that we cannot share them, cannot duplicate them amongst ourselves. They are absolute intuitions that arrive without reason and cannot be translated, transported, or transacted outside of our heads. We can try to communicate these things, and so art becomes the borders of compromise which define otherwise belligerent sovereignties. But in the end we're doomed to misunderstand one another. All we have in common are the stars above our heads.