sol.ace_r

If stars, too, had lives,
then a burnt-out star — one that has lost its light yet still holds a trace of warmth —
must be that final moment of life.
After burning through every flame,
only a quiet heat remains, slowly fading.
The human heart is sometimes like that.
Only after using itself up completely
does it realize how its warmth quietly cools.

For a time, I lived as if my inner light had gone out.
Mornings still felt like dawn,
and even among people, I felt surrounded by darkness.
Back then, I was like a burnt-out star myself —
a remnant of something that once shone.

When I first heard the word for it,
I felt strangely comforted.
To have burned black means
there was once a time you burned brightly.
It’s not that you disappeared —
it’s proof that you gave everything you had.

The world loves what glitters —
new lights, quick changes, things that catch the eye.
But I began to find beauty
in what was fading away:
a star that endures until the end,
slowly dimming yet leaving behind its warmth.
It felt more human to me.

When you gaze at the night sky long enough,
you begin to think of the stars you can’t see.
They surely still exist,
though their light no longer reaches us.
Where are they now?
Gone — or simply unseen?

Perhaps the human heart is like that, too.
A feeling that once shone for someone
can suddenly go dark.
But that doesn’t mean it’s gone.
It simply remains in another form —
sometimes as understanding,
sometimes as longing.

For a long time,
I thought an extinguished heart was useless —
something to forget.
But one day I realized:
those forgotten feelings
were the ones quietly holding me up.

The burnt-out star still exists even without light.
Unseen, yet drifting through space
with its weight and warmth intact —
like old memories inside me,
always ready to rise again.

Everyone meets a moment
when their own light disappears.
Days when nothing shines,
no matter how hard you try.
And in that darkness, fear comes —
that it’s over,
that you’ll never begin again.

But the burnt-out star whispers,
“It’s all right. Losing your light doesn’t mean you’re gone.”
Even as its glow fades,
warmth remains deep within.
It takes a long time to truly grow cold —
and maybe that means
you can shine again someday.

I no longer fear the dark.
Darkness is not the opposite of light;
it’s the space where light can rest.
The burnt-out star exists there —
not as surrender,
but as stillness.
Even when the world forgets you,
you stay — quietly breathing where you are.
And I’ve come to love that kind of time.

To someone, I may already be a vanished star —
no longer shining, just an old memory.
But if somewhere in their sky
a faint ember of my name still glows,
that alone is enough.
If you once shone, even for a moment,
in someone’s life,
then you are an everlasting star.

Some stars look dead from afar,
yet deep inside, heat still flows.
The human heart is like that, too.
On the surface, still —
but within, something moves.
It’s the instinct to live again.
The burnt-out star can catch fire once more,
perhaps because of that faint heat inside.

I treasure my own burnt-out star.
It’s not a mark of failure,
but a trace of the time I’ve lived.
Because there were days I once shone,
I can now endure the dark.
Only in darkness
do I truly see the color of my own light.

Someday,
I wish to remain as someone’s burnt-out star.
It’s fine if I’m unseen.
I just hope that on a night when someone is lost,
they lift their head, see me,
and feel their darkness grow a little less lonely.
That would be all the warmth I need.

The burnt-out star is sad, yet beautiful —
not because it has burned itself away,
but because it once shone sincerely.
The trace of that light still lingers;
it hasn’t vanished —
it has merely changed form.

And I wish to remain the same —
in someone’s memory,
as a small, quiet light.
Even if I never burn again, that’s all right.
As long as the warmth inside me hasn’t completely cooled,
I still exist.