The Pale Yellow Dot

Look again at that nacho. That’s home. That’s every chip you’ve ever known, every piece of cheese ever melted, every jalapeño bravely placed, every crumb of history layered in sour cream and hope.

Every topping you love, every spice you’ve feared, every argument over who got the best chip — all of it happened here, on this fragile pale yellow surface of corn, warmed for a brief and glorious moment under the heat of an artificial sun.

The Pale Yellow Dot reminds us how tiny our feast truly is in the vast hunger of the universe. Think of the oceans of salsa spilled across time, the avalanches of shredded cheese that rose and fell like civilizations. Empires have come and gone, but the nacho endures — proud, messy, and completely unaware of its own beauty.

Our toppings, our sauces, our imagined sense of balance — all of it is challenged by this perspective. For all our layering, for all our garnish and guac, the nacho remains delicate. One careless hand, one extra scoop of chili, and it collapses back into crumbs.

It humbles us. It feeds us. And in its brief, glowing existence, it reminds us that even in the cold, empty darkness of the cosmos… somewhere, there’s always a chip still holding it together.