Starry eyed
The ceiling has stars on it. A cheap plastic version of the galaxy glowing there watching me. Watching me as I don’t sleep. Once I read that if you have insomnia it is best to go into a different room so you don’t start to associate your bedroom with sleeplessness. There isn’t anything to do and the rest of the world is asleep. I leave the room quietly, my feet padding through the thick carpet making me feel like a lioness, or maybe just a very smug cat. How can you sleep? There’s too much to think about.
The only light in the room is the clock on the Hi fi glowing green through the room. The curtains are open and the stars shine into the room. A real, larger version, of the plastic stars I have on the ceiling in my room. That’s what I’ll miss most when I move to a city- the stars. I love looking at the stars. Sometimes I’m happy just to sit outside staring at them, wondering about the trillions of different things that they hold, but we don’t know about yet. Sometimes I can even tolerate the horrifically cold Northumberland nights just to see the stars. They aren’t just pretty, what they represent is more than that. They represent possibilities. The idea that anything, whatever, is possible. And that in the grand scheme of things, nothing you can do matters. Whether you become great, a complete hero; you still don’t matter compared to everything else. There are just so many stars.
To me, that’s a comforting thought.
When I was little I used to walk home from my aunt’s at night. There wasn’t much point driving- it was too close; so we walked. The nearest street lamp must have been a few miles away, so you could see every star. Every single one of them, shining down on you. I used to walk along just looking at the sky, paying absolutely no attention to what direction I was going in. The number of times I walked into the same bloody falling down brick wall, you’d think I’d learn. But I didn’t. I was completely mesmerised.
I don’t really have time for the stars anymore. It’s like, suddenly, my life has got interesting and I don’t have time for the little things. For sitting at home and actually talking to my dad. For writing poems, composing songs, for creating a world in my mind seperate to the one around me.
I guess that’s a good thing. Some time you need to grow up, to realise that it’s time to move on from where you live in a dream world, to where you actually live the dream. It’s just scary. There are so many things that can go wrong to turn that dream into a nightmare. But I miss it now. Sitting in my room and just thinking about things. I guess I still do that to a certain extent, but for a while it would be nice to just sit here and look at the stars.
Labels: Growing Up, Poetic licence
