If I were a solivagant star in space, I'd link arms with the universe and have her tell me that all this pain was worth it, that something golden would blossom from it, maybe then I'd be more focused on planting seeds instead of always drowning in the weeds of my blackened psyche.
I'd burn, explode, spontaneously combust, and no one would tell me that to confirm was all I had to aspire to, no one would be around to make me feel like too much of a burden, as if I feel too much too quickly, too warm, too much, too fiercely.
If I were truly solivagant, I'd have no reason to cry when asked "How are you?" I would not avoid the ever familiar question "How was your day?"
Wanderlust would consume me and I'd search for hidden gold, space would not cheat me, would not let me crumble and fold.
My tears would be of use, they'd fall on clouds as messengers to rain upon the seeds on earth, to give life to the breathing dead.
I think I'd love to be a solivagant star in space, no magic tricks would be needed, no quizzes to tell me that I belong in this place.