Something Behind the Stars
by Cloud
October. Golden flames fluttering in the crisp sigh of autumn, navy blue streaking the dying light, silver shimmering in the sky. It is by far the most cool and most colorful point of the season. All is calm, all is silent, and yet a slight unease settles with the presence of the growing cold. Some force of nature makes it such that as the heat of the preceding seasons ease, a strange tension grows and fills in its place. It is because of this, presumably, that people tend to feel the most empty around these times of the year. The sunshine and smiles of summer become subdued and are gradually turned to ashes, a meager shadow of its former glory. The season of poetry, the season of analyzing the rapid changes occurring in the world, environmental or in each other. Autumn is a turning point, a point of death and simultaneously a point of rebirth. It is conflicted that way, but in a larger sense, everything that exists or is believed to exist in this world is conflicted in one way or another. This is a mere detail that humans fail to notice on a day-to-day basis, but regardless, it is something that will remain unchanged.
Autumn is poetically characterized by trees bursting into flame in slow motion and metamorphosing and long, solitary walks on a cool evening. To me, it possesses a different meaning. I pass my time by gazing into the night sky and questioning the validity of our existence. This, like taking an evening stroll to recenter around one’s life, is generally a lonely activity, one that most others lack the time or interest in taking part in. At the time, I knew but one person who shared my affinity for the glassy dome above our heads. As each day drew to a close, we would lay on the dark field of grass by the nearby school and watch the colors of the sky fade out slowly. It only made sense that we were there that night, the night when the star left the sky.
Twice that month, the moon was out of its usual place in the dark canvas above the earth. The evening sky was unusually clear; little silver stains speckled the sky and shimmered contentedly. The pink and golden hues of the setting sun slowly lost their vibrant brilliance as the chill of the night set in. A lone ember drifted by our pale faces, having just escaped the grasp of the tree it was tethered to beforehand. I personally was fascinated with the way every living color subtly melted in with the greyscale as temporary darkness began its reign, how the world slowly ceased its motion and froze, captured, as if in an old photo album. The surrounding area was likewise silent; I could hear her breaths next to me. The ethereal sky that night was reflected in her wonder-filled eyes. I, too, was full of wonderment myself, but I probably did not show it. I have always had a bit of difficulty expressing emotions.
The contours of her face were suddenly freed from their monochrome, almost lifeless state. Puzzled, I looked up at the source of the unexpected glow. There was a ball of aqua-gold fire streaking through the motionless sky, resembling an airborne sphere of combusting ice. It was a thing of dreams, appearing to leave little golden specks in its great, illuminated wake. We were mesmerized by the grace with which it single-handedly invalidated the night. The conflicted colors in the conflicted setting provided a bit of satisfaction, proving that it was possible for beautiful things to exist in a self-contradicting world. I traced its slow, elegant arc across the sky and found a similar arc adorning the face beside me, glowing in a different way.
by Cloud
October. Golden flames fluttering in the crisp sigh of autumn, navy blue streaking the dying light, silver shimmering in the sky. It is by far the most cool and most colorful point of the season. All is calm, all is silent, and yet a slight unease settles with the presence of the growing cold. Some force of nature makes it such that as the heat of the preceding seasons ease, a strange tension grows and fills in its place. It is because of this, presumably, that people tend to feel the most empty around these times of the year. The sunshine and smiles of summer become subdued and are gradually turned to ashes, a meager shadow of its former glory. The season of poetry, the season of analyzing the rapid changes occurring in the world, environmental or in each other. Autumn is a turning point, a point of death and simultaneously a point of rebirth. It is conflicted that way, but in a larger sense, everything that exists or is believed to exist in this world is conflicted in one way or another. This is a mere detail that humans fail to notice on a day-to-day basis, but regardless, it is something that will remain unchanged.
Autumn is poetically characterized by trees bursting into flame in slow motion and metamorphosing and long, solitary walks on a cool evening. To me, it possesses a different meaning. I pass my time by gazing into the night sky and questioning the validity of our existence. This, like taking an evening stroll to recenter around one’s life, is generally a lonely activity, one that most others lack the time or interest in taking part in. At the time, I knew but one person who shared my affinity for the glassy dome above our heads. As each day drew to a close, we would lay on the dark field of grass by the nearby school and watch the colors of the sky fade out slowly. It only made sense that we were there that night, the night when the star left the sky.
Twice that month, the moon was out of its usual place in the dark canvas above the earth. The evening sky was unusually clear; little silver stains speckled the sky and shimmered contentedly. The pink and golden hues of the setting sun slowly lost their vibrant brilliance as the chill of the night set in. A lone ember drifted by our pale faces, having just escaped the grasp of the tree it was tethered to beforehand. I personally was fascinated with the way every living color subtly melted in with the greyscale as temporary darkness began its reign, how the world slowly ceased its motion and froze, captured, as if in an old photo album. The surrounding area was likewise silent; I could hear her breaths next to me. The ethereal sky that night was reflected in her wonder-filled eyes. I, too, was full of wonderment myself, but I probably did not show it. I have always had a bit of difficulty expressing emotions.
The contours of her face were suddenly freed from their monochrome, almost lifeless state. Puzzled, I looked up at the source of the unexpected glow. There was a ball of aqua-gold fire streaking through the motionless sky, resembling an airborne sphere of combusting ice. It was a thing of dreams, appearing to leave little golden specks in its great, illuminated wake. We were mesmerized by the grace with which it single-handedly invalidated the night. The conflicted colors in the conflicted setting provided a bit of satisfaction, proving that it was possible for beautiful things to exist in a self-contradicting world. I traced its slow, elegant arc across the sky and found a similar arc adorning the face beside me, glowing in a different way.