The past is in the stars, that much is known. The same goes for the future, but talk of such a thing doesn’t suit her at all. Perhaps it once did. Back when she was a kid with autumn in her hair and sunlight to her touch, but as it is, the adult world took such delicateness away, and so the night sky came to represent what might’ve been if only the gods had shone on her a little kindlier. Failure is a big word, but fail her they did, or so she thinks, because what is there to look forward to if life strives only to put out the flames one holds so dear. Somewhere, there lies an ocean, not of water, but of memory. You don’t swim in such an ocean, merely retreat. She vaguely remembers when she first dipped her toes in. It was when her daddy raised his hand to her—a not unexpected event, and yet one that left her reeling all the same. Then you had the guy she gave her heart to who spat it out as if it were a piece of gum. It took her a long time to fall, but then in no time at all, she disappeared from view. To begin with she kicked her feet, only then she let it take her with ease, and as she slipped away, she slipped right to the bottom like a lone spoon in a sink. If only she were as strong as the sun. If only her heart didn’t break apart at the merest of touches. At 3am, she peers through the curtains at the moon. It’s so cold. So old. It anchors her to what she knows, and yet the thought that it’s been around since before she was born—and that it will be here long after she’s gone—is enough to give her the heebie-jeebies. The stillness is interrupted by the curtains blowing in the wind. It’s a simple act observed only by her, and yet the universe knows such acts are as precious as the birth of any star, and so it continues to will her on. The same as it always has. The same as it always will.
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