Stars

  After years and years of isolation, you suddenly looked for stars in a vast winter sky that night. There was no reason to look for the stars, or even anything, but the grief of unending silence - untouched - as the sound of earthly commotions died down in space, that terrible grief, enough to rot a Red wood in California down in a single blow from the unfathomable depths of its core, took hold of you. The evening ended in a slow progression of non-events happening in a chirpy fashion all around you - drivers driving, people cooking at home, people crying at one corner, people laughing at parties, loners doing whatever they are not supposed to do, people keeping themselves busy with people - all at once making your upcoming night yellowish and lonelier. Still it was comfortable knowing that despite how hard you try to let go of you and your blackness to finally see the star, to finally see that twinkling piece of magical shit blooming into whiteness even within the black iris of everything human and lonely within you, to have been killed and hope to sleep it out and never hope to join the genocide that is living, no matter how hard you try to look for stars, you secretly understand the slowness of the situation and you secretly give yourself away to the past. And you knew nothing awaits as you lay in bed apart from the exactly normal passage of seconds, nothing awaits except wasting away in peace before morning happens or stars die.