I’m a mid-middle-aged star, and although I’ve long been aware that I will die (about 5 billion years from now—yikes!), I can’t help but harbour certain feelings of inadequacy and inconsequentiality. Why even bother with all this heat and radiance and excessive exuberance? Also, I’m feeling incompetent with regards to my size. I’m only 1.4 million km across, and so many of my astral brothers and sisters, well, they’re huge. I know you call me a yellow dwarf. (Yes it’s me, your Sun). I will never get to know what it’s like to supernova and become a black hole. Just once, Ann, I’d like to bend light into myself rather than just dumbly spurt photons all over the place. Yes, I know you love those photons, and need them (you’re welcome, it’s a gift), but humans, well…speaking of inconsequential. Just saying. But fuck, America doesn’t even care about me anyway, not like those solar-luvin’ fun-in-the-sun beach-party Ancient Egyptians.
I am good at my job (I work at a Helium factory, you could say—I am one—hence my rather high voice), and many fellow cosmic bodies seem attracted to me, so I feel a part of the community. But they always seem to keep their distance; they’re rather elliptical and I never feel like I can get close to any of them. (Though I do have this thing with a gal named Halley…every 72 years, I melt her icy minerals in a cosmic spume of space dust, if you know what I mean). I really just don’t see the point anymore. Meditation barely does anything for me because I’m already not thinking at all, I’m actually quite limited in the thought department, just cruising through space tending to my nuclear guts. Maybe I go pharmacological? But like what kind of drugs can you even give a star? Ann…fuck I just don’t want to die. Is there any way—before your society implodes in another cyclic round of chaos and war of all against all, or your Earth goes all fucked geologically speaking—you can find some sciencey way to inject, say, 6×1013 cubic metres of hydrogen and buy me a bit more time?
– The Sun