Tuesday, 25 January 2011


“Show me the stars.”
I’d laugh.
I’d point, as if they weren’t there, all of the shining, glimmering, breaking out from the thick black waters reaching out for the surface but never reaching it, never cutting my fingers with their rough, sharp and pointy edges.
I’d be taken into my parent’s arms as I’d try to grasp them.
They all shined differently up to the point that I gave them names. But I was pointed out that they already had names.
“All of them?”
It held no sense, did it? How come? How come they all had their names when no one pays attention when I’d mention their glow, their shape, their colours.
I’d get laughed at.
How come stars have colours?
They’re plain, stupid, small and don’t shine bright.
Oh, but they had. All of them with their own glow which wouldn’t collide with their name. All of them had their taste as well.
The stars were going out.
But they ignored it, going faster, stronger, budging everything aside.
Faster, more crowds, more buildings, more conflict, more intrigue.
How can the stars be so sharp that they cut your tongue? Letting blood flow, creating a red meteor shower over the sky, as the crowd would open their mouth, as if to grasp each falling stone. Everyone grabbing, their mouths gasping, shouting as they’d fall into their mouths, closing their eyes, shouting where the stars had gone.


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