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Under The Stars. |
| Written by Nunyo Bidness | |
| Sunday, 20 July 2008 | |
 We only say we are "under the stars" at night. It's beautiful the way we say this, that night is the only time that stars exist. That one block of our day has been defined as unique, special, the only time that a proper vision of the universe can be had. Though, in reality, stars encircle us constantly. The burning giants outlive us, outnumber us, and ultimately, will destroy the rock we live on. Yet during the day, countering all of the natural superiority, men can glance at the heavens and defiantly discredit nature.I love you meant nothing to the stars, and it meant nothing to me. The stars were the bright lights in a sea of darkness, while I was fizzling in the extravagence around me. It felt so good to hook them, to see them run to you, to beat the odds. But it felt so hollow afterwards. At times, I could say I was attracted to her. At times, I could even say I saw a future with her. But glancing back, if I could see through the trees in this park, and the tall buildings on the street that ran next to it, seeing straight into her window, I could say it again. To those pleading eyes, I could tell her that the stars were clothed in the daytime. The stars told lies about what they could do for you in the night, about how far you can reach, about how far you can see. Sometimes, they hung so low that you could feel them breathe on your neck, taunting you until the sun peaked over the mountains that held true on every horizon, and while they got clothed, you could hear them laughing a mocking, sincere, deserved laugh. The bench was cold but it was better than the ground. The lights that illuminated the cracked concrete walkways that spiderwebbed the park were mostly broken, and although my feet hung over the end of the bench, I was finally comfortable. I was finally done. She might have been crying. I might have been too. There was a roof over her head, there usually was, but I didn't suffer this problem. The stars painted a map for me, an endless amount of roads. They had a funny way of being better than the pathlights in the park at showing you where to go. They could lead you over the grass and through a thicket and up a mountain without ever lying to you, without making you question them once. It was a reflex, not a choice, to follow them. The problem was that stars are hard to see during the day. It could be done, I know that, because I had followed them, teaching the hand I held the same talent. They were wonderful days. They were gone like most wonderful things. When I tried to re-live the wonderful days, like all wonderful things, there was nothing but a rumbrave hope. I had hooked this one. The problem was, through the wrong trees and the ugly buildings, into just another window, onto a bed soaked up the wrong tears falling out of the eyes of a hopeless brunette, there was a roof eight feet above her eyes. To me, that was just as deadly as being truly blind. Copyright 2008 Nunyo Bidness |
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