Of Stars and Murder

Everywhere stars. Heavenly spheres contained in their self-constructed prisons of immense gravitation. Like pure ideas so hefty their own immense weight is all that contains them but do so effortlessly and nearly flawlessly. These stars are like ideas, bright and immense but constrained, burning at the edge of consciousness, only marvelous at a distance, mundane in proximity. Still, get too close and they consume you. They suppress their own fury organically. One such idea tugs at me now, mercilessly. We are all murderers. We kill tirelessly. The worst part is that we are numb to this death because we fight others as unkillable as ourselves and seldom tally those unfortunate mortals that perish while the capsuleer is born anew. The true murder is the murder of an idea: the commensurate weight of a human life. These mortals, these humans, are somehow less weighty than the infomorph. The importance of the human is now a brown swarf, exhausted and muted, dwindling into nothingness. The death of ideas may one day leave the universe bereft of starry ideas, an infinite moral darkness, no light to steer by. Void.