There are stars embedded into this ceiling. Dazzling shapes of pentagrams, just glowing and blooming, sculpted across that plaster.
I used to lay in my bed dreaming of those speckles. I imagined that maybe if I could reach high enough, if I just grasp onto whatever edge I could touch, that I might become apart of them.
But I let fear overcome me.
There’s terror in the unknown, I once heard someone say, that ether could swallow you up until not even your memory remains. Yet as I got older, I craved for that uncharted sky.
I have come to realize there is beauty in fear. There is a bone curdling scream of inexplicable joy in that dread. I wasn’t meant for this world, this constant thinking, consistent overthinking.
I was meant to be in those cosmos. Chiseled next to Orion, maybe gazing at Andromeda as she searched for Perseus. I was meant to uncover those stories, follow their truths, compel my own anecdote.
I believed it so much.
I believe it so it must be true.