Echoes of the Stellar Void

Orion did not open. Cassiopeia remained inclined over her throne of embers. The Great Bear kept drinking from the night’s frozen bowl.

Then I invented another alphabet:

a circle inside another circle, an angle that cannot find its vertex, a line that returns by the impossible side of the world.

Non-Euclidean geometry for a divinity that knows no walls.

My signs curved until they looked like orbits. The question became a spiral. The answer, a point outside every surface.

H.P. Lovecraft would have recognized in that writing the architecture of a fear without a face.

I saw only the human hand trying to draw a window in the wall of the absolute.

---

Dust of Names

Every particle of my body was once a star without witnesses.

I repeat it so I will not forget that blood, too, is ruin, that bone keeps an ancient grammar of supernovas.

In stardust sleep the names we never learned to pronounce.

I carry them in my mouth like little funeral crowns: names of extinguished suns, of moons that never had tides, of worlds whose night knew no birth.

If the cosmos hears me, it does so from a distance that makes sacred any failure.

If it does not hear me, my voice will remain matter: a warm residue, a grain of extinguished light in the vast accounting of what never mattered.

---

The Cathedral Without Echo

I raised a tower of prayers with stones torn from my own shadow.

Each stone said: look at me.

Each step repeated: answer.

At the summit, the sky was not sky, but a vault sunk beneath the weight of infinite ages.

There I waited.

Above me, the dark nebulae opened their petals of soot. They seemed like gardens cultivated by an intelligence that despises flowers.

A star died without making a sound.

Its belated light touched my hands like the message of a king who no longer remembers having reigned.

Then I understood that absolute silence is not an absence of music:

it is music without an ear, a perfect hymn that need not be sung.

---

Orbit of Ash

I drew close to the question until I lost my shape.

I was no longer mouth, nor skin, nor name written in the ledgers of dust.

I was an orbit of ash around something that never deigned to become a center.

The night grew.

The stellar wind passed among the ruins with its ancient patience, dragging particles older than memory.

I wanted to send it a signal, but the signal was me.

I wanted to offer it my fear, but fear already belonged to the laws of matter.

I wanted to say: I am here.

And the phrase came undone before it left my chest, absorbed by a darkness without direction.

---

The Motionless Answer

For centuries, men looked up and mistook distance for promise.

So did I.

I waited for a figure behind the blackness, a face bent over the trembling Earth.

But the stars do not bow their faces.

They burn.

They are consumed.

They obey forces that know neither mercy, nor desire, nor the word mother.

The cosmos is not cruel: cruelty requires choice.

It is vaster than cruelty, colder than abandonment, more majestic than any god capable of listening.

That is why I persist.

Not because I expect an answer, but because a human voice, rising against nothing, becomes for a moment the strangest form of dignity.

---

Beneath the Nebula

The darkness had colors no eye should remember.

Green of submerged metal. Violet of a celestial wound. Deep blue, almost black, like the edge of a law that cannot be spoken.

Beneath that nebula, my prayer did not rise: it sank.

It descended among filaments, crossed clouds of dust, brushed newly born stars that knew nothing of their own fire.

I did not ask for salvation.

Salvation is a word too small for a night so ancient.

I asked for the smallest sign: a change in the shadow, a grain of light straying from its course, the trace of an intelligence in the abyss’s cold calligraphy.

Nothing changed.

The nebula kept closing over its secrets, beautiful as a tomb that needs no corpse.

---

The Names of the Void

I called the void by its names:

Abyss. Night. Distance. Faceless god. Geometry of hunger.

Each name fell and made no circles.

Absolute silence did not return even the echo of my blasphemy.

Then I understood that to name is not to summon.

A name can be a lamp lit in an abandoned house; it can reveal the walls, the dust, the table where no one waits.

But outside the house, beyond every lamp, the universe goes on.

Colossal. Indifferent. Perfectly whole without my small invocation.

Even so, I spoke another name.

Not to open the sky.

So I would not disappear without having spoken it.

---

Prayer to the Blind Stars

Blind stars, embers without sight, receive this voice as one receives ash:

without judgment, without comfort, without needing to understand it.

I have come with empty hands, with my tongue worn down by so many questions, with my heart reduced to a wandering particle.

I do not ask you to descend.

I do not ask for signs, or destiny, or a secret door in the fabric of the night.

Only let me behold the black beauty of your hidden regions:

the nebulae where light learns to die, the stardust that covers the remains of time, the impossible arches of a geometry without a world, the stellar wind sweeping the altars we raised to be seen.

If there is an answer, let it be this silence.

If there is a god, let it have no face.

If there is meaning, let it remain far away, cold as a dead star, majestic as the night that never quite closes.

And if nothing exists, if all that we love is merely an accidental gleam in the immensity without memory,

let my final word be lost with dignity among the blind stars.

End of chapter one. 2 more chapters and about 2,714 words in the full book.