The Star Sorting Station rises from darkness like a tower of crystalline light,
Its platforms humming with ancient purpose.
You've worked here so long you barely remember arriving.
Now you stand at the receiving platform and stars fall like rain.
You are a star catcher and requests fall as burning light.
Stars of every kind streaming down in endless volume.
You've been trying to catch them all at once,
Your hands reaching frantically in every direction,
Terrified that missing even one means catastrophe.
Every star feels like it needs you right now.
This instant,
Simultaneously,
The blur of light is constant,
Overwhelming,
And you've forgotten there was ever a rhythm beneath the chaos.
But then you feel it,
A presence beside you,
Calm as deep water.
You turn and there stands the star watcher,
Robes woven from light and shadow,
Eyes that see patterns you've been missing,
Treating every star as if it needs you in the same instant,
They say softly.
The volume is real,
I won't tell you it's not,
But there's something at the center you need to see,
Where stillness holds you even while your hands are moving.
The star watcher begins walking inward and you follow,
Though your hands still reach compulsively toward passing lights.
A bright star streaks by and you lunge for it,
But the star watcher gently catches your wrist.
Shh,
Not this one.
Watch.
You freeze,
Heart pounding certain it will crash,
But the star you didn't catch drifts into a gentle orbit around the station's perimeter,
Finding its own graceful path.
Something loosens in your chest.
Some will find their way if you let them,
The star watcher says.
Not every star,
But some.
Most you'll need to catch,
Yes,
But you've been catching from panic,
From the edge where everything feels like chaos.
What if you could catch from stillness even while moving fast?
As you move inward together,
The frantic noise shifts,
Becoming something almost musical.
You take a deeper breath than you've taken in days.
You approach the center where a circular pool of perfectly still liquid starlight glows.
The still point.
You feel drawn toward it,
Yet terrified.
What if you stand still and fall behind?
The star watcher gestures for you to step forward,
But your feet won't move.
What are you afraid of?
They ask gently.
There's too many,
You whisper.
If I slow down,
I'll drown.
The star watcher's eyes are impossibly kind.
What if standing still doesn't mean slowing down?
What if it means finding the center that holds you even while you're moving?
They extend their hand.
The stars will keep falling,
But from the center,
You'll catch them in a flowing dance instead of frenzy.
You take a trembling breath and step forward into the pool.
The starlight rises to your ankles,
Cool as mountain water but alive with subtle warmth,
Tingling like electricity made gentle.
It climbs to your knees,
Your waist,
And with each inch you feel something releasing,
The tightness in your jaw,
The knot between your shoulders,
The shallow panic breathing you didn't know you'd been doing.
When it reaches your chest,
The sensation intensifies,
A warmth blooming behind your ribs,
Spreading like honey through your entire torso.
Your breath deepens involuntarily,
Pulling all the way down to your belly.
For the first time in weeks,
Maybe months,
You feel your shoulders truly drop.
The star watcher kneels beside the pool,
One hand on your shoulder.
This is what you've been missing.
Feel it in your chest,
This pool of calm that exists even in the storm.
You can carry this with you.
You can catch from here.
Then you see it.
The falling stars organize into distinct orbital layers,
Each pulsing with its own rhythm.
The star watcher gestures to the closest layer.
These are your now stars.
See how close they are.
These need you in the moment.
They gesture to the middle distance.
These are your soon stars.
They need you,
Yes,
But they can wait until later today.
Then they point to the periphery,
And these your tomorrow stars.
You have time.
They place both hands on your shoulders,
And the warmth in your chest grows stronger.
You can meet almost every demand without being consumed.
The catching is never done,
So this is not peace that comes after.
This is peace from which you catch,
Steadily,
Rhythmically,
Sustainably.
You step out from the still point,
And the warmth travels with you.
A glowing pool of light in your chest.
Two now stars are genuinely close,
And you catch them,
But everything is different.
Your hands move quickly,
Yes,
But the stillness remains.
You can feel it,
That quiet center,
Holding you even as you reach.
The speed is there,
But the panic is gone,
Replaced by flowing rhythm.
You catch the now stars with care,
Then turn to three soon stars,
Orbiting patiently at mid-distance.
You finish.
Take one full breath,
Feeling the warmth,
And reach for them with the same rhythm.
One dim star drifts past,
And you watch it find its own orbit with quiet relief.
The star watcher smiles.
See,
You're catching from center now.
Your hands are just as quick,
But you're not drowning.
You move through the station,
And stars continue falling in high volume,
But you meet them from a different place.
The warmth in your chest remains constant.
A quiet pool holding you steady,
And from that center,
You see clearly which stars need immediate attention,
And which can orbit peacefully.
You catch steadily,
Rhythmically,
And though your hands move quickly,
And volume remains high,
The stillness never leaves.
The star watcher's voice is warm.
The work doesn't require panic.
You can be quick and still,
Productive and peaceful,
Efficient and whole.
You stand at your workspace,
And the volume hasn't changed.
Stars still fall in heavy streams,
But you have changed.
You feel the warmth in your chest,
Like a pool of glowing light,
And from that center,
You see the layers clearly.
Three now.
Stars arrive blazing,
And you catch them with flowing efficiency.
Your hands quick,
But your center calm.
Soon,
Stars orbit without triggering panic.
Tomorrow,
Stars circle peacefully.
When an occasional dim star drifts past,
You watch it find its own path without guilt.
Your shoulders are soft,
Your hands moving with rhythm that flows from the stillness within.
Then it happens.
A cascade of stars falls at once,
A surge that would have sent the old you into spiraling panic.
But this time,
You feel the still point in your chest,
And take one slow breath,
Letting the warmth hold you.
The cascade doesn't overwhelm you.
You catch from center.
You move through the surge with flowing rhythm,
Quick but not frantic.
And when it's done,
You're still breathing,
Still whole,
Still rooted in stillness.
The star watcher's voice settles into your heart.
You've learned to catch from stillness,
Instead of panic.
This is how you sustain.
The stillness is always there,
And you can return to it with a single breath.
Stars continue,
Their eternal falling,
Luminous against the darkness.
Tomorrow more will come.
The stars will orbit,
And you will catch those that need catching.
But you understand now,
You can catch them without being consumed,
Because as you found the stillness at your center,
The quiet pool that exists even in the storm,
You place one hand on your chest and feel it.
The still point that lives there now,
Warm and constant,
The place you can return to with a single breath whenever the volume surges.
One star falls,
Blazing bright and close.
You reach out with steady hands,
Catch it gently and breathe.
