I had always found lights iridescent. They have this sense of warmth and life in them that I can’t help but be amazed every time they take a different form or color, lights don’t hold grudges or exclaim discomfort. They’re stoic, never blinded by love or hurt by faulty decisions. They remain proud of who they are but humbled of where they came from.
I guess it’s safe to safe that I grew up with the mystery of stars. I mean I like them how they turn blue or red or just plain white. Like the push and pull of love, they fall knowing that if they didn’t the universe would be a sadder place to live in.
I’ve never heard legends of stars nor mythological stories of how they came to be on their own. All I know is the story that portrayed them as the children of the sun and moon.
That story ended not really happy, it made them look like abandoned children constantly running away from a bleak childhood.
Some stars are bigger than the sun but we can never tell because they’re so far away they look so little compared to others. Just like people I guess, sometimes we think that that person won’t make any significance in our lives, we see them with such a little light but if we look closer, know them a little better or invite over coffee in a quaint cafe we realize that they shine brighter than others. And we finally realize that we found our favorite star.
Lights don’t have shadows, I think. But their absence is anchored on melancholy and sadness. Darkness doesn’t exist it’s dependent on the insecurities of light not to shine. They say that when a stars die they turn to black holes, I’m not really sure about that but I really want to know the difference between stars that fall from those that turn to black holes. Because when the time comes, whatever that means, I’d rather be a falling star than a black hole.