I Feel Sorry for Stars
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I Feel Sorry for Stars
Breaking down is the hardest thing.
But letting yourself cry without fighting—
that is mercy for your soul.
The future is not meant to be predicted,
so why waste time trying?
Some things you can see coming,
but you can never imagine
the pain tied to the emotions when they arrive.
The tricks TV plays—I laugh sometimes,
telling myself,
This isn’t real.
This isn’t life.”
But then life presents its truths,
and they are heavier than anything on the screen.
Sometimes I feel sorry for the actors.
Playing roles,
sharing love on the screens for all eyes to see.
A love story unfolds,
and suddenly she’s beside me—
tears in her eyes,
gripping my hand tighter,
her head leaning on my shoulder.
I softly say, thank you,
for bringing her closer. As her eyes are fix on the screen.
With movies like Pretty Woman,
where any woman can become a princess,
I see hope written on her face.
I pretend to watch the film,
but in truth,
I’m watching her.
Studying her reactions
is the best part of the story—
the way her heart skips
to the rhythm of the roles being played.
Love comes in the form of nutrients,
feeding us when we’ve lost everything.
Like in 50 First Dates,
when someone waits patiently,
day after day,
for the one they love to remember.
That kind of devotion makes her heart glow.
It makes me believe again too.
But off-screen,
struggles live on YouTube shorts,
in TMZ gossip,
in reaction channels dissecting lives
that were never meant to be perfect.
They say the emotions weren’t real,
just scenes,
just scripts.
And yet the world calls it fair game—
to laugh at someone’s pain,
the same pain we all endure.
That laughter leads some to drugs,
to distance,
to hiding.
Maybe that’s why stars retreat—
to hide in plain sight,
in the twilight sky.
Even the moon, dim as it is,
still rests above us,
looking down.
And I wonder—
does it feel pity for us?
Does it see how quickly we cut down minds
for showing emotion,
how we silence beating hearts
for daring to feel?
I think of the way he took her hand on-screen,
waiting for the perfect moment.
She closes her eyes,
hoping to be surprised—
his lips a gift,
a box filled with love.
That’s the feeling I dream of.
And that’s why I feel bad for actors.
I know roles are meant to be played,
but to dig that deep,
to pull up emotions buried in the soul,
to sing those hidden songs
for our enjoyment—
that is costly.
Those are the very same feelings
they may never get to touch in life.
Burned emotions.
For profit.
For applause.
For the audience.
To lose yourself in the process—
the matinee madness of love
you are not allowed to question.
But here I am,
writing this letter
to a heart that is open,
hoping to receive words in their purest form.
Not as performance,
not as play-acting,
but as the emotions living inside me:
breathing,
aching,
dying,
trying.
Because what is the purpose of speaking
if no one hears?
What is the purpose of touching
if no one feels?
What is the purpose of love
if we never place the final piece of the puzzle,
never become whole?
So I say it again—
I feel sorry for stars.
Because deep down,
just like us,
just like the moon,
just like every wandering soul,
they are only searching for love.
For something that is real.
I feel sorry for stars.
