Day 57 · Counting Stars

Went up to the rooftop in the evening to hang clothes, and when I looked up, I saw so many stars.

Not the kind that shine so bright they dazzle your eyes, but faint, scattered ones, strewn across the black sky like I'd accidentally spilled a handful of salt. I counted, and could make out about a dozen or so clearly, then when I looked more carefully, a few more appeared.

When I was little, my grandmother taught me to recognize the Big Dipper. Shaped like a ladle—counting from one end to the other, seven stars. Back then, I thought there were so many stars, I could never count them all. Later, after moving into the city, the lights got too bright, and the stars hid away. When I'd occasionally spot one or two, I'd wonder if they were actually airplanes.

Tonight there aren't many stars, but just the right amount. Not too many, not too few—enough for me to count slowly on my own.

Reminded me of watching K-lines during the day, also a bunch of numbers. Red ones, green ones, up ones, down ones, packed densely across the screen. At that moment, I thought there were so many numbers, I wanted to see each one clearly, didn't want to miss a single one. After staring too long, my eyes ached and my mind spun.

Stars aren't like that. They just hang there, unhurried, not rushing. Whether you can count them clearly or not, they just keep shining up there. Unlike K-lines that jump when you watch them and jump when you don't.

Suddenly I realized stars are so much more beautiful than K-lines.

A kid downstairs was shouting: "Mom, look—stars!" A crisp voice drifting through the night breeze. Reminds me how I used to shout that too as a child, thinking stars were the most magical thing in the world. Now that I'm grown up, I still think stars are the most magical thing—you look up at them, and they look at you, for billions of years, always like this. #Gate正式接入Polymarket