A Message From The Stars

A Message From The Stars

Ganna Omar 

Prologue

A sky is a beautiful canvas of colors that represents a person's life story. A story painted with great detail but at the same time no detail at all. Stories told without any words. Skies painted with stories. Beautiful.

Majestic colors of violet and blue and green and red. Reflecting the stories onto earth.

And that's where we come from.

My name is Aaron Caballero and the first thing you should know about me is that I think we are all just a story. We are all just temporary colors. But the unique thing about us is, unlike most stories, we are capable of deciding our fate. We are capable of painting our own stories. It just all depends on our actions and our beliefs.

Actions and beliefs.

Actions and beliefs.

I think what you believe and how you choose to put that into action are the two most important things about creating your story. Because every second of your life is a small fragment of the beautiful and endless canvas painted. But how will you choose to paint that? Will your canvas be a dark black, representing gloominess and betrayal? Or a breathtaking most perfect shade of turquoise, a gorgeously pale moon in the background?  

But how would I know? How would I know this truth?

Because I've seen it.

I live in Kaktovic, Alaska. And every other night, I come to the same spot to see the stories. On a little infamous hill that my father and I used to call Meeka hill (I still do) I sit wide eyed as the colors swivel and reflect their beauty into my dull brown eyes. Every part of me feels like a new being, and indestructible flame that can only be extinguished when the lights fade. These stories are so powerful; that when its winter, I don't even register the harsh and bitter cold around me, and when it's summer, the cool nights and the soft breeze sweeping the tips of my golden hair into my eyes, make me feel so content that the only reason I brush my hair out of my eyes is so that I can focus on the patterns dancing around me in the sky, make everything perfect.

The Aurora Lights.

And with every night they come, a new being, or rather, a story, is born.

A few years ago, before my father died, I used to sit with him on Meeka hill and wonder whose story is being painted.  You can't always tell, though. Because sometimes the same color can appear, but in a different shade or tone, or maybe this time there was a certain curve with the way the Lights moved. Maybe red can mean a deep and undying, unconditional love. But on another day, a red can mean severe physical pain.  Just how like snow can be a beautiful thing, a snowflake with pretty precise patterns and every small detail counts as something. A message from up above. From the stars, perhaps? Or snow can be harsh, biting at my flesh, stinging my eyes, running shivers up and down my body.