I can’t help being fascinated by the stars of the night sky. In summers if there is anything that would even remotely make me want to get out of my comfortable bed, it is a clear night’s sky. When the summer heat dies down and the cool breeze brushes against your skin, the sight of a starry night holds you in rapture as if performing a magic trick. In nights like those as I lay down on the soft dew laden grass my fingers stretch out only to trace the few constellations that I know of. The Big Dipper like a saucepan or Orion like a warrior’s breastplate, my finger traces each of them, inching closer with every straight line it completes.
It is only when my arm begins to hurt that I realise what I had been doing all along; aiming to get hold of something that doesn’t even exist. A lie wrapped around the wonders of unknown to us so that we keep looking, so that our interest remains piqued. Perhaps we keep telling us the same lies in our journey of life. We keep running in hopes of finding that one thing after which we would stop. The one thing that is never really there but is what that keeps us going. Just like the constellations in the night sky. In those lonely nights, as I rest my head on my arm, I love to see a shooting star.