The Silly Lad and the Stars

Can a silly lad ever make it in this world? One who walks with questions instead of answers, Who speaks to machines And sees poetry in the precision of logic. He lingers in silence others run from— Eyes tracing constellations only he can read, Where stars aren't just stars, But messengers of something vast, Something honest. With a lens in his hand, He captures not just light— But solitude, The ache behind a smile, The hush between thoughts. He doesn't shout to be seen. He doesn't push to belong. He drifts gently through the world, A whisper among screams, A soft spark in a place built for fire. He loves what is real— Not what is loud. He holds space for meaning In a world that trades it for speed. And still, the question claws quietly inside: Can a silly lad ever make it in this world? A world that forgets the still ones, The curious ones, The ones who feel too much, Too deeply. But maybe he doesn’t need to “make it” The way they say. Maybe he only needs to exist— Fully, quietly, honestly— To change the shape of everything He simply passes through.