August Twenty-Second, Two Thousand Eighteen. Colorado. Eleven thirty eight P.M.
I said to an acquaintance once:
"Stars, on their own, are fascinating and interesting. Humans, my dear, are made of stardust."
I stand by that statement. We as humans, have desecrated each other, killed each other, robbed each other. We are tainted beings. But we are no less fascinating.
We fill our short lives with entertainment, family, friends. Our lives are meaningless on their own. So we, as humans, give them meaning.
And I consider that beautiful.
YOU ARE READING
Wings of a Starbird: A Journal.
NonfiksiWARNING: Features panic attacks and paranoia episodes the way I experience them. Everyone is different. Enjoy.
