A Rogue Planet

A rogue planet is not lost.

It is not broken.

It is not abandoned.

It was once held by a star,

once moved inside a system,

once followed an orbit

like everyone else.

But young universes are violent places.

Gravities collide.

Worlds pull at worlds.

Giants disturb the small.

Chaos writes its own mathematics.

One close encounter.

One invisible shove.

One imbalance between pull and speed.

And suddenly—

The planet is moving faster

than belonging allows.

Not because it chose exile,

but because the equations changed.

Its sideways motion grew stronger

than the star’s embrace.

Escape velocity.

A quiet sentence written by physics:

“You are no longer bound.”

So it leaves.

Not in anger.

Not in rebellion.

Not in sorrow.

It leaves because motion remembers itself.

Space offers no brakes.

No friction.

No walls.

No hands to slow it down.

Only silence.

So it keeps going.

Through dark seas of vacuum.

Through starless corridors.

Through temperatures that freeze light.

Yet inside its core,

radioactive atoms still decay.

Pressure still builds.

Heat still survives.

A hidden fire.

A heart that refuses extinction.

It does not orbit light anymore.

It carries light.

Just like certain human souls.

They were once part of structures.

Families.

Ideologies.

Systems.

Beliefs.

Then something happened.

A collision of experiences.

A gravitational fight between who they were

and who they were becoming.

Their internal velocity grew stronger

than society’s pull.

So they detached.

Not because they failed.

Not because they are antisocial.

Not because they are cold.

But because their inner motion

exceeded the orbit that was offered.

They wander.

Not empty.

Not meaningless.

But self-powered.

A rogue planet teaches:

Some beings are not designed

to circle greatness.

Some beings are designed

to become their own center.

And travel