You look up at the stars. You attempt to orient yourself by them, because you have that vague idea the stars are formed into figures called constellations, but you then realize you don’t know enough about these constellations to chart any kind of course.
Then another thought comes, and you stop thinking of the stars as a kind of map for traversing the surface of this world. You look up, and see the lights twinkling in the sky as particles of matter floating far off in a vast, dark ocean. You realize that you yourself are riding atop the surface of a similar particle, floating somewhere in that ocean.
In your mind the stars become beacons, distant fires burning with the promise of other worlds like this one, other beings, other lives. You do not know why you feel this way. The same way you do not know how you know about constellations. You don’t know why one idea makes more sense than another. You only know one resonates inside of you like echoes in a cave, and the other lands flat.
Then, the stars make you feel lonely, and you stop looking at them. You look back down at the ground. The grass of the field is green. It feels soft on the pads of your feet and between your toes. It brings you comfort.