A few minutes ago, I was under the sky talking to myself. I saw the moon shining bright, though hidden under the clouds. It was still luminous enough for its light to penetrate through them. Just a handful of stars were visible as tiny dots scattered across the blue.
It was pretty, but now that I think about it, I find something interesting. The moon is not as bright as the stars — it neither has its own light, nor is it as massive. The stars are far, far away, burning balls of fire. The moon is just an opaque reflector. But because it’s close, it doesn’t just look bigger — it looks brighter. Its light can pierce through the clouds, while the stars’ far stronger glow cannot, simply because of their distance.
How strange it is that something so great from afar looks small, like nothing, and something modest that’s near feels overwhelming. The moon, just a cold stone, can even light up my path and make me feel safe — while the fire that can burn worlds, even swallow them whole, appears only as four or five tiny dots in the sky.
When I think about it, it’s proximity that matters. Greatness isn’t as important as we often believe. What’s close to us influences us far more than what’s distant. If stars could think, they would probably find the moon either humbling — or insulting.
Oh wow, this is exactly what Newton said: it is directly proportional to the greatness, but inversely proportional to the square of the radius. GMm/r² it is. Proximity shapes influence. It’s not just brilliance or greatness that matters — it’s presence does too, and at times may be more. If one cannot be present when we need them, their greatness loses meaning after a point in life. Without proximity, it no longer exists in the same way.