I'm from South America, where the stars are literally different when you look up in the sky. For kids who like stars, migration is hard.
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What people here call the Milky Way is like a highway, if you will, for some people. That highway makes everything else possible.
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It's shitty that, from LA and so many other parts of the US, I can't see what people here call the Milky Way. It exists, but is invisible.
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Yet this alone has taught me such an incredible lesson: I *know* the highway is right above me, whether I see it or not.
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(*quick note: what people here call the Milky Way is not the Guarani version of heaven; for us, it's a highway but not for after death.)
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Sharing some of this from my little backyard. Me and a glass of a wine or two, watching Mars starting to set.
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Remembering I've learned we're stardust. And that I've made this fit into everything else I know about roads, paths, highways, and home.
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Some of us weren't meant to survive. And too many of us don't. It's incumbent upon us still on this road of life to do right by those gone.
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And it's just as important to take a moment to breathe and look at the sky every now and then. It's our birthright. It knows no borders.
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Listening to Jay Z's Spiritual on repeat, watching Arcturus... what a bright star. Headed to dreamland soon. Good night.
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Jay Z's Spiritual is haunting... Can't imagine what a whole Jay album like this would be like
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Jay says he's singing for the little boy he forgot — his growth stunted by transgenerational trauma, death, violence, fame.
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"I need an angelic voice to sing something. Bless my soul. Extend your arms – I'm cold. Hold me for a half hour till I'm whole." —Jay to Bey
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