Last night, I plucked a couple of stars in the evening sky and stuffed them in my pocket. Who knows, time may come when I will need the company of the stars to join me in the celebration of my melancholy. They will be my guiding light if I decide to walk along the cobblestones towards the gazebo where I store my innermost desires. They will shine the same path if I decide to go back home. During the wakefulness of my nights, I worry sometimes. What if I run out of stars to pluck? Who will accompany me in paying tribute to my solitary existence? Are stars like trees, can they be made to grow in replacement of the others that I took? I just hope that I won’t live for a million years; I would prefer the paucity of happiness than the scarcity of stars.
As I lament the celebration of my seclusion, I felt the stillness of the night weep in silent resonance. Its sob was the hushed wind that blew my tears away. My tears together with the night’s was the mist fogging my vision as I stare forward, looking on as the story of my life slowly unfolds.
From the sky above, the stars shone brightly and from its corner, one drops from the precipice into the horizon.
*dlas*
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