“The Moon sings to me, and sends me glowing pillows carrying sugar-cube dreams for my heart.”
I proclaim to myself. Yet, what I see as unassailable actuality is, in fact, merely an optative reverie.
Spread across the ominous sky- it’s colors never dark enough to be black, and never a shade even remotely as discernible as the most treacherous indigo- are the sprightly stars, amused at the austerity of their own mother fabric, the vast sky that has cradled them since time was an infant.
They know my dreams, and they know yours. Perhaps their delight arises from the knowledge that they’re a part of all those dreams, and the ones our minds spin into a gossamer cocoon of repose to screen ourselves from the overwhelming heat of the sun, right when it reigns over us diminutives.
They know we adore them, cherish their very existence. In them we see promises of immortality and transcendence- the faces of our venerable departed, the whispers of children unborn, all of them nestled in the abode of our gods.
They beckon us forward along untrodden paths of exploration and musings, science and romance- both the classes of inspiration blending into one of brilliant enlightenment.
We reach out to them, forgetting anguish and all that is dismal, and they laugh with an air of self-adoration, reveling in their power to placate us minions- jejune enough to assume that we can fathom the forever swirling truths that dance behind the veil of their abysmal mother, and the ones that steadily mold our realities.
Modesty has been lost on them since eons.
In that, we’re akin.