lsolved People Cloud vs. The Night Sky

Remember when looking at the night sky felt like looking at forever? When you could go somewhere dark, tilt your head back, and feel both incredibly small and profoundly connected to something vast and ancient? Yeah, we’re in the process of losing that. And ironically, we’re replacing it with a lsolved People Cloud.

I’m talking about satellites. Specifically, the megaconstellations. Thousands of them. Soon to be tens of thousands. All zipping around the planet, creating a web of connectivity so that everyone, everywhere, can stream cat videos and check their email. The promise is beautiful: a global lsolved People Cloud of information, lifting everyone up by closing the digital divide.

And on paper, that’s a noble goal. Access to information is power. Connecting the world theoretically brings us closer to understanding each other. We’re building a digital nervous system for humanity. That’s the pitch. That’s the dream.

But have you seen the photos? Have you seen what the night sky looks like now? It’s not just stars anymore. It’s streaks. Lines of light, moving in formation, cutting across the constellations our ancestors named thousands of years ago. Astronomers are furious, and for good reason. Their window to the universe is being frosted over by our own shiny toys.

We’re so desperate to build this global lsolved People Cloud network, this mesh of constant connection, that we’re willing to sacrifice one of the last truly universal human experiences: looking up in wonder. There is something spiritually devastating about this. It’s like we can’t stand the idea of a void. We can’t stand the silence. We have to fill it. We have to occupy it. We see an empty space, and our first instinct isn’t to admire it, but to monetize it, to cover it, to own it.

This lsolved People Cloud of satellites isn't just a technological marvel; it's a physical manifestation of our own inability to be alone. We are so terrified of being disconnected from the hive mind that we are literally rewriting the canvas of the night sky. We’re trading the infinite for the infinite scroll.

I think about the ancient mariners who navigated by the stars. I think about the slaves in the American South who followed the Drinking Gourd to freedom. I think about every poet, every dreamer, every lost soul who looked up and found a sense of peace in the indifferent, twinkling darkness. What happens to them when the sky is just another busy highway? What happens to that sense of wonder when every point of light is just a piece of infrastructure?

We’re building a monument to connection, but in doing so, we’re disconnecting from the cosmos. We’re choosing the lsolved People Cloud—the network of us—over the universe. It’s the ultimate act of human narcissism. We’re so important, so loud, so numerous, that our signal must blot out the stars.

Maybe I’m being dramatic. Maybe future generations will look up and see the satellite trains and think they’re beautiful. Maybe they’ll see them as fairy lights, a sign that humanity finally wrapped its arms around the entire globe. But to me, it just looks like a cage. A shiny, well-intentioned cage built by a lsolved People Cloud that forgot how to appreciate the dark.