Karkat had always been absolutely fascinated by how romantic it sounded, when he’d first heard of them. A thousand paper stars to grant a wish? It was just like some of the best in his vast collection of movies.
But it wasn’t until a while later that he’d actually start making them. After finding out how to make them after a quick Trolloogle search, he set to work, knowing in his pan that it wouldn’t do anything, but still young and naive enough to hold onto a shred of hope.
It took a while, and used up lots of paper. Star after star after star.
When he was at about half a jar, he just.. stopped. It became a bit boring. A tiny bit dull. Star after star after tedious, colorful little star.
A couple perigrees or so later, when he was self-decidedly smarter and also wiser, he got into a dramatic, slur filled fight with Captor. He had thrown his arms up in outrage, when out of the corner of his eyes he spotted the jar, still half-full., covered with a thin layer of dust. Pausing, he slid the pieces of paper over, and began again.
It became a sort of ritual for him after that. Get into a fight, a couple paper stars, wake up in early evening grumpy, a couple more. After a short while of this, the jar was full. He placed it next to the husktop moniter, and stared at it occaisionally. A thousand and one were in there, prevented from growing little legs and escaping by a sturdy cork.
He.. waited. And waited. And then, he started another jar. Feel shitty, make stars, wanted to go into an absolute rage, make a few more. It didn’t make him feel any better, of course. Just gave him something to do that wasn’t tearing his whole hive down and throwing it at Her Condescension Herself until She came over and culled him personally.
The jars multiplied. He made a couple more friends, if he could call them that, somehow. More colors went into the mix. Sooner or later twelve separate colors filled up the jars.
When he’d been thrust into the game, he’d started making them with a fury. Anything to stay inside and not look at the nauseating color of his land.
The jars piled up. He got more and more frustrated with each one, as time went by.
But he kept them there, as a brightly colored silent confirmation that magic doesn’t exsist, and he’d never get any of his wishes granted.
Self-destruction is a beautiful thing.