I love the stars that blanket the sky. Their shimmering surfaces, shrouded in winking flames. Perhaps I love them for the secrets they hold. Born from nebulae, living for millions of years before exploding into a supernova, what a glorious name for death. We become spirits that roam the earth, but they shimmer with the light of a million suns before extinguishing, becoming black holes in the galaxy. Perhaps they have witnessed too much of our human suffering, and cannot bear to carry on the weight of such a curse. So they go from a beautiful being of light that carries our burdens to creatures of darkness that only know consumption.
Are we much different?
How many burdens does it take for us to finally collapse? How many moments of silent suffering can we endure before shattering? How frail the human spirit.
And so I draw strength from the stars. From their inevitable deaths, and their glorious lives. From their presence. They are always there, even blanketed beneath the heaviest of fogs they illuminate the skies. I am humbled beneath their awesome power; I am quieted by their ferocious burning, the nuclear reactions occurring in their depths both awe and astound me. I can’t get up in the middle of the night without falling over my nightstand, sending the lamp shattering to the floor, a budding bruise upon my knee. But the stars, their grace and their perfection, they do nothing but exist, and their existence is enough. It is enough to quell the silent ragings of my heart, the anxious thoughts that swirl about in the confines of my head, like a blender on the highest setting, threatening to burn out. Their presence reminds me that something impossible has indeed become truth, and I am comforted by that.
And so I fall asleep with the kisses of their glimmers on my cheek, beneath the broad expanse of desert sky, and I know that I am right where I am meant to be.