"I like to come out to this pond in the middle of the night, because I’ve found, through trial and error, that it is one of the quietest places in this town at midnight.
And, you know, when I lean over the railing and I look down into the water, it seems dark, and cold, and deep. Like if I look too long I’ll fall in, and the fall will never end.
But then I look up. I look up and I see the city lights, and the passing cars. I see the stars, and I think of all of the endless planets and galaxies hidden in the black sky above me. It makes me realize how much is really out there.
Sometimes all you have to do is look up.”
Life moves so fast sometimes. Or all of the time. I often find it hard to keep up. Like if I slow down or stop, everything and everyone I know will leave me behind. Things that can't keep up are left in the past.
But sometimes I find time to pause. When I do, I often find myself looking up at the sky. Not during the day, of course, all that blue in front of me feels like drowning. I look at the sky at night, watching the stars above me: soft, twinkling lights betraying their fiery and ferocious reality. It fascinates me that humans have spent ages finding patterns and shapes in these distant balls of gas. How is it that things that are so far apart can still appear close enough to connect with one another? Sometimes humans are this way, I think. And look, here I am. Ascribing meaning to distant balls of gas. I am no different than anyone else.
But what is the harm? When I found myself at a small pond in the middle of town one night with him, he spoke of the stars in much of the same way. I don't think I will ever forget what he said that night, about the water and the night sky, even though I know one day I will forget about him.
Life might move fast, too fast, but memories like that one cling forever, unchanging and blissfully immobile.