I tried to explain the concept of stars to a three-year-old, who couldn’t quite fathom why we loved what we did.
He held onto his stuffed rabbit and asked ‘what are those lights in the sky’, with wide eyes and a genuine interest in human nature.
I explained to him that they were stars, and when he asked what that meant, I said ‘they’re just ***** of gas, light, and hope’
and these vast spheres of gas and light and hope, govern us. Tyrannize our tiny existence with their somewhat larger indulgence.
How we worship supernovas and eclipses, how we wish on things that merely embellish the moon; that glow. How we loved to watch things, and pretend
that they were of some sort of importance. We could spend whole nights lying on our backs with lovers watching still shots of the void. Figments of imagination.
I tried to explain the concept of stars to a three-year-old, who couldn’t quite fathom why we loved what we did.