Bleak, ancient light from distant stars.
Faint glow of embers as the last of the death sticks that had been saved to last the night gives up its ghost in one unfulfilling last breath.
Save for these two, little light remains, the man-child ponders as he lies on his back on the hard floor staring up at an almost blank sky.
They say the night is magical, I agree. The nyctophiliac in me nods rather enthusiastically in agreement.
Yet on some nights your whole world comes crashing down.
You can always tell if a night is going to bring bad news from how thick the darkness is.
The nyctophiliac hangs his head in shame now, his faith obviously shaken.
I think the guy up there sympathizes with the woes of us puny humans after all.
Can't think of any other reason our darkest nights are also the darkest in the heavens.
And sometimes it's so dark that if you try to draw constellations out of the stars like you used to do in your childhood, you fail, because they are placed so hopelessly apart.
And at this moment, at this moment alone, I can relate.
A bitter love story written in the stars for all to perceive.
01 Apr 2014
note to self :
never fall in love again.