The eternal silence of these infinite spaces frightens me.

Looking up long enough to feel how small you are is unsettling, and the honest response is not composure. Vastness does not answer back, and something in you keeps waiting for it to. That silence can make everything you care about look arbitrary. The fright is not a failure of nerve; it is what happens when you see the scale clearly and stay looking.

When that feeling arrives, let it be there rather than arguing yourself out of it. Then turn toward one small, particular thing near you: a person, a task, a meal. Meaning tends to be built at that size, not found at the other one.