If you want the stars, you can't be distracted 
by fireflies. You have to be willing to build a rocket ship 
out of pretzel sticks and throw it together by reading a tedious manual
written in Latin. You have to get it wrong until wrong is the only thing 
you know and the only thing it feels like. You have to be okay knowing
you may still have it wrong after all that, but find enough solace in the certainty that you are true and the only thing that matters is that you are being true 
to the mad genius in you that baffles all the bastards of the universe. 
A star is a star during the day too, and at night when you aren’t looking,
and when you are sleeping and eating and forgetting what you were meant 
to be, the star still does not forget. So what if it explodes in the end into emptiness (emptiness is not nothing) forever? It was still a star once, 
and for billions of years it was being true, and it shook its dust to make other galaxies. When is the last time you have shaken the dust? Can you read Latin 
or make anything other than an awful smacking noise with pretzel sticks? 
Stop blaming your star for being too hot. It’s not too hot, it’s too hard and too far for your comfort so you traded your dreams for entertainment 
because your monkey mind prefers a jar of bugs to conquering a cosmos.