Let's start somewhere familiar, if one could say that. Sol,
or simply 'the Solar System' found inside an outer arm of the Milky Way galaxy.
At the heart is a hellacious marvel of nuclear fusion, plasma and hot stuff
known at 'The Sun' (or G2V). It's surrounded by eight planets drastically
smaller than itself. It appears large, but's frivolous when pitted against
distant behemoths.
VY Canis Majoris in the Canis Major constellation boasts
a diameter of two billion kilometres. Two
thousand times larger than the star before. To help ease our uncomprehending
minds - it would vastly cover the
solar system prior and most of the planets inhabiting.
This star mind you, is roughly four thousand light years from 'The Sun'. A light year isn't a measure of time, but distance. It's simply the distance it takes light to travel in a year - some ten trillion kilometres. Such length seems mystifying, inconceivable. Like my biceps.
In this place, it's the language of the land.
The Seven Sisters. Known by the Ancient
Greeks as the seven daughters of Atlas, the titan condemned by Zeus to uphold
the sky. These ethereal relatives reside in the Taurus constellation some 380
light years from our original solar system. Apparently women can live together
in groups.
Even better than the female mystique.
Nebulas! You might think this looks an awful lot like the Lagoon Nebula, but
you'd be wrong. Before you is the most fun you'll ever have. Interstellar
clouds like this are made from the same stuff found in beer. They're majestic
giants of gas and common breeding grounds for stars. They're also freakin' hot.
If one day my awesomeness and pretentiousness run out and I too die someday - I'd want to go out like this. When a star dies it releases energy and matter in a magnificent but deadly happening known as a 'nova' or 'supernova'. The flash briefly outshines any galaxy. It also looks like someone hiffed paint at a wall. This supernova is 26,000 light years from our starting line:
The wonders don't stop yet. As the star
falls back upon itself, it becomes infinitely smaller but maintains a colossal
mass - a white dwarf star. Though some are only several kilometres across, a
teaspoon of matter from a white dwarf star can weigh the same as a mountain. It
is a ludicrously condensed version of its former self.
It is also possible for a star to diminish severely enough to trigger the
phenomenon known as a 'black hole'. In these nothing is palpable, not even time
and physics.
We haven't even left the Milky Way yet. We
probably don't need to - it's 100,000 light years across (that's 100,000 x 10
trillion km). The galaxy above isn't the Milky Way though, it's the Andromeda
Galaxy, one of its close neighbours. Eventually it will crash into the Milky
Way and the two will merge, presumably after doing the fusion dance.
There's galaxies, and then there's badass. Quasars are the
latter. Though they look similar, quasars aren't conducive to life but lethal
to it. They're heavier than a billion suns and can devour stars. Credit to
their 'supermassive black hole'. They reside in the centre of young galaxies
and are far more luminous - one thousand times more luminous. So needy are these
promethean predators - they shoot a trail of light from their centre for
trillions of kilometres. Star Trek style.
Travel further so we're 8 billion kilometres away and we
reach an incubator of infant galaxies. Newborns who'll grow up to be
like the Andromeda. Keep going and we reach the edge, the edge of the universe
and the afterglow of the big bang.
13.7 billion light years out, and still it goes further...
Far far away, back where we first began. There stands a
molecular object called Earth. Seven billion people, so close, so cramped on
its tiny surface - and many of them feel lonely.
What's up with that?
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