I feel like all of my wishes are used up and they’re bouncing off of me as I make my final lap across the night sky.
And that is considered dreamy?
What if I told you that all of these dreams are combustible stars dying in a brilliant burnout of epic proportions? That their endings are so beautiful and intense that nobody questions that such magnificence could be anything but life at its fullest – even when it’s not.
And it isn’t.
I’m dying. I can feel the inferno building and people only look at me with ignorant eyes. Eyes that reflect a sight that has long since lost any of its appeal to the beholder, but somehow captivates everyone else.
My light is my ending, yet everyone throws more demands my way and I just keep going, letting them bounce off my skin. I’m no genie, but I feel like I was only ever made to serve.
I watch the others around me. They shine so bright, with no concept of the darkness that surrounds me seeping into my bones. I’m made of twilight and molecules and fantasies and so many wrong directions.
But who am I outside of the magical opinions of others?
I’m nothing, that’s who. I’m what they think I am. A romantic concept. A burst of potential. A Hail Mary shooting across the sky as thousands of desires are launched my way.
But what is my wish? Where are my answered dreams?
I now understand what it feels like to be a shooting star. It isn’t romantic or glamorous. It’s isolating and deadly.
It’s the final goodbye.