In the end, we are all mere stars of a constellation that may or may not be the favourite one of a little child who longs to float across the sparkling galaxy shimmering with stardust of the charred ones. Children are told that their loved ones who are no more physically present with them become some distant star that shines brighter than the rest and somehow guides them through a harsh journey called life. My star is the closest one, the sun. How lovely it would be to take a stroll in the garden of cosmos, take a whiff of the beguiling clouds, maybe crush the unearthly soil of mars in your hands, pluck a few stars and press them between the pages of your favourite novel so you can catch a glimpse of nostalgia two light years later, take a few pictures of the mesmerising nebula and later find some flaws in it's skin that you thought was perfect and also maybe probe the depth of the black hole, see if it's deeper than your soul. Oh how lovely it would be.
In the end, we are all just shallow figures in the polaroid of a tired photographer who claims to capture moments with a snap of fingers. A photographer who tries to find happiness in others for he lost his a long time ago, the way a bird loses it's feathers. How blessed are we to be able to relive the memories, or are we cursed that memories have such a strong grip on us? The same smiles that were so charming back then, now haunt a trail with no train that hits the nerve cord out of the blue and announces the innocent soul brain dead. And no miracle is capable enough to revive a wrecked soul, for it has lost it's essence, the sole purpose of living.
In the end, we are just splashes of colours on the canvas of a trifing artist, whose works may or may not become masterpieces, for he is a lonely soul who paints with the dull shades oozing from the cracks of his fragile heart wrapped in bandages of grey, now torn and tattered. Colours are not mere colours, they are hues of emotions felt by only a few lucky ones. Can one live with a lonely shade for their whole life? Would it be better to blend them all and take the risk or play safe and maybe later regret and clench fists? To be immersed in the silk of purple or drenched in the rain of blue, how about both or maybe all? But life isn't so kind, for what about the colourblind?
In the end, we are just scant words of a forlorn lover inking woes of his unrequited love hoping it would bloom into something not in it's roots. Sometimes words don't heal, they just give a feeling of unwanted numbness added to the misery resides in the dark corners of heart and refuses to pay any charge. A poet doesn't necessarily write from the core of his heart, sometimes the words are shallow, deceiving and laced with spells to keep you hooked, to keep you from peeking inside the heart, the heart that's as caliginous as the cloudy sky before the storm, that is so grotesque and tender that no verses of poetry can dissolve the coat of rusty acid enveloping the surface completely.
In the end, we are just mere actors waiting to be hired for the play of the season, thinking, to live it would be a significant enough reason. Trying to fit in, to stand out like the rest, rehearsing the same script over and over again, not realising it's meant to be a candid play and not some elegant broadway. Some get tired of being the backup artists and leave everything half way because they fail to see it's how they perceive and not what the world deems to be fit. I was desperately trying to be the brightest star, the one that sheds light to infinities so far, the one who is better and different, but then I met the moon, so pale and full of scars, and yet I was swooned. Whether to steal someone else's limelight or create your own from a galaxy full of charms and potions bright, is a simple choice.
So in the end, we are just humans endeavouring to find who we are in the end.