The superficiality of humans.

 The more time I spend with humans, the more debased I feel. Their dullness wearies my mind; their predictability suffocates my thoughts. Even suffering, even failure, ought to possess a kind of nobility—a glimmer of aesthetics, a silhouette of philosophy. But those beings carry nothing. In their presence, I feel my essence erode, thinned by the noise of their shallowness. And so I ascend again—away from them, into the skies, beyond the stars, to the limits of the vast universe. There, I begin to mend. I recover pieces of myself long scattered in their midst, and in that sacred solitude, I revere the version of me that they made me forget.