It's a beautiful thing to be level with the stars. You spend the whole of your life turning your gaze upward to wonder at their vastness. Summer nights spent in the comfort of your relative insignificance and singularity. Remote and Volatile. Their individual pinpricks of light combined to form patterns from a certain vantage point. Capricorn, Ursa Major, Scorpius. So named by men of dust. Brilliantly imprinted on your memory.
But suddenly, instead of finding shapes within the clouds, you are in them, above them. The sky spread out, just beyond the window. Millions of points of lights face you.
You are no longer a stranger admiring the distance. You are their equal. Rivaled only by the other passengers who so carelessly affix their eyes to the horizon. Breath in the moment, drink in the dark. Blue hot and resplendent. Limitless and cosmic.
YOU ARE READING
Revelations
PoetryIt was really me. It was really you. There was really nothing we could do. To put it concisely, these are short, philosophical situations, feelings, and thoughts of different persons and personalities I've encountered.
