America remembered a time when he used to watch stars. It was a time before he was a country, and perhaps even before he was a colony. He remembered lying in the cool grass of himself, and staring up at the vast expanse of blankness and scattered diamonds. He used to reach his hand up to the sky and squint, trying to imagine that he could pick them up one by one, trying to pretend he could reach them.
He remembered lounging by a fire, listening to the strange sounds of the dance of the natives, as they cried out their woes and joys, weaving them together in an old, forgotten tongue. He remembered gazing up at the sky as he listened, and watching the smoke from the fire obscure the stars, and make them blurry, leaving an almost smudge on the crystal clear of the universe.
America remembered sitting on the swaying bench outside of the manor, nestled in England arms, looking up at the sky with half lidded eyes, heavy with sleep. He remembered how cold the night; he could see his breath mist in front of him, but he was safe, with England's arms wrapped around him.
"I want to go there, someday." he said tiredly.
England just hummed at him. "I'm sure you will someday, love"
"You mean it?"
"Of course, child. Of course."
America remembered that day in 1776, when he looked up at the sky, asking for an answer, a guide, to tell him what to do. The sky didn't show him stars that night. It wept, and wept, until he was drenched in the tears of the earth.
He remembered his days as a cowboy, riding through the fields, seeing familiar constellations and patterns, knowing which one would bring him home, and knowing which star would point west, west towards his manifest destiny.
And now America looked up at the sky, and wondered if someday, he could be a star. An infinite, unchanging, cold being. To stare at the world, to watch the universe, unfeeling, and ambivalent to all the pain and all the joy. To not have to remember.