When the light washes out the stars, I think of lesser lights and greater lights.
There was a blackout two weeks ago. I almost miss it. I pulled out my black notebook and tried to draw what I couldn’t capture on a phone’s camera. I was sure I would forget what it looked like. (I did.) But drawing in the dark is ridiculously hard. All I have is a black page speckled with white.
I am staring at the sky now, expecting the darkness to enfold me. But there is just blackness because there is too much light.
It strikes me how old starlight is. And how it can be washed out by the few lights in a country town.
And I think of how some stars have long burned out and I’m watching them die. I wonder if all they know is to burn.
Then I wonder why shiny things enamour me. I think of how I used to be terrified the Sun would run out of fuel. I think of how the Sun is bright enough to swallow the darkness and all the stars with it.
I’m imagining myself on the ground being someone else. A someone staring up at the sky, thinking, “How beautiful.”
And that’s all the person thinks.
My mind has run into little crevices. It is a child pulling out scraps of paper and shouting, “Look what I have found!”
How nice it must be to focus on one thing. And letting that one thing say it all.
“I am okay.”