letters to Cassiopeia

You dream of wielding that sense of childish wonder in your heart once again:

A sort of unquestioning naivety in all things beautiful, a life that never ends – that wisp of nostalgia manifests into something a touch more tangible. You taste mooncakes on a soft autumn night; the smell of the sky hours before the first raindrop falls lingers above your quiet home. Somewhere, in a near distance, fireflies land on the moon and find home with a rabbit who’s tired of being alone.

The young girl that sat on the swings all those years ago has now grown older (it’s in the softness of her features, the faraway look in her eyes), but she hasn’t quite grown up: she still writes long letters to the constellations because brightness can be translated into the soul. She’ll continue to learn from them, continue to try and comprehend the ways of the sky’s beginning.

And sometimes, when you close your eyes, you become that girl: in your dreams, you never started looking to the end – instead, you wait in the darkness of a breaking dawn for a new tomorrow. You don’t decide today that you want forever; you wake up every morning and, each day, realize the fleeting breathless captivity of living and make a promise to those twenty-four hours. Eternity would pass you as you hold onto the sun.

It’s about time dreams fall into reality, you think.

It’s about time you wake up again.

 

 

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