The Infinite Starr

I see you out there.
Squinting into lives you don’t understand, like you’re peering through glass that only reflects your own face back at you.
You think you’re watching a fall from grace.
But you’re really just watching someone climb a mountain you’ve never had the courage to approach.

You parade your opinions like a letterman jacket from high school—nostalgic, irrelevant, no longer impressive.
Still clinging to a version of yourself that was never as adored as you imagined.
You are loud, not wise.
Angry, not right.
Cruel, not kind.
And yet you act like we should all bend around your wounds.

You throw pity parties and call it spiritual growth.
You punish others for the story you refuse to own.
You look at someone else’s scars and assume they got there by choice, never thinking to ask what the fire felt like.

No, you’re not a villain.
Villains are at least interesting.
You’re something smaller.
A grown child—hurt, bitter, with too much time on your hands and too little truth in your mouth.
There’s no grace in the way you speak.
There’s no clarity in your vision.
You point fingers like someone else put the knife in your hand.

But here’s the part you won’t understand, not yet:
We are not watching you out of anger.
We are not giving you that kind of power.
We look down only because we took the high road, not because we seek revenge.
Your tantrum does not shake the earth beneath our feet.
Your misjudgment does not dent the armor we earned.

You are not being silenced.
You’re just not being listened to anymore.
And there’s a difference.

You want attention, not truth.
Validation, not growth.
You’ve mistaken self-centeredness for self-worth.
And now, standing in the wreckage of relationships you blew up with your own hands, you ask the world to mourn with you.

But no one’s crying for you.
Not because we are heartless.
But because we’ve already done the grieving.
We buried the connection you shattered.
And now, we’ve moved forward—head high, heart intact, and laughter in our chest.

Not cruel laughter.
Not mockery.
But the laugh of someone who is finally free.

You don’t see what we see.
You can’t.
Not yet.

Because these eyes?
They’ve seen fire, loss, grace, redemption.
They’ve seen what it means to heal.
And healing doesn’t look like you.

So sit with your mirror.
Sit with your stories.
Or don’t.

Either way, we’re not waiting.

We’re gone.
And we’re not looking back.