The last time I was in Vermont, I realized how small I was, how small we all are. Amongst the trees, the mountains, a self-important person feels most insignificant. Who was I to trespass on hundreds of years of nature's perfection? Without me, without us, these trees would keep growing and the mountains would stand just as tall.

When the Vermont sun set that night and the stars each took their small, glittering place, I was in awe. If the trees, the mountains, and the vast expanses of foliage didn't make me feel small, these did. Every seemingly tiny star danced in its own, personal spot in the sky. There were more stars strewn across the sky than I had the patience to count. These stars seemed so small, like if one burnt out right then and there, no one would notice. But, stars are giants, bigger than our sun, burning from an unfathomable distance away. If these gargantuan masses of fire seemed so forgettable and microscopic to me, what was I to them? If I was standing on one of those stars, would Earth even be a fleck of light in the sky? Would I be able to tell that billions of people live there, millions of years of history had passed, and that everyone I loved was there on that tiny pinprick of light?

Thoughts like these made me dizzy and overcome with anxiety. I am the top of all species here—the most intelligent, with the most gravity on the Earths' status. I'm the one that can drive a car, interpret complex emotions, and make civilized things like art and music. Clothing, money, the latest thrill, it all means far too much to me. But, what is it to a star, which we may not even exist to? What is it to any of those hundreds, maybe even thousands of stars I saw that night?