Once, I was a dreamer. I would look into the dark sky above me, and see an endless universe. It was full of mystery, millions of stories and marvels. Now, I look into it and see nothing. Tiny pinpoints of light staring back at me. Wondering why I no longer ask for their stories. Blinking, expectant. And all I can do is stare back. I have no answer for them. Nothing that would not seem a lie. This is the end for me. The last of the starlight inside of me has flickered and gone out. I’m left now with only the vast emptiness. No stories. No marvels, or wonders. Only the mystery.
Once, I was a dreamer. I searched for the truth in the stars, the buried treasure of forgotten skies and the rolling, grassy hills they watched over, in some faraway land where man had not yet tread. I saw their secrets and held them tight behind my eyes, as if they were my own. Knowing they were not. Knowing that they were no ones’ but the stars and the sky. But never believing that one day they would be taken back, taken away from me. And now they have left me, the Keeper of nothing. Perhaps it was my own doing that drove away those sacred lands and starry nights. Or perhaps I was selfish in thinking it was only I that could look upon them as I did, and see the wonders I saw. I lay here now, beneath them. Blind.