Igniting the Stars

1022 years.

I have been stuck on this cursed planet for one thousand and twenty-two years.

I have been cast aside to suffer on this desolate planet we have named “Earth” for centuries, and yet I still have the appearance of a seventeen-year-old. Well, with the exception of the abnormal amount of scars I’ve collected like stars scattered across my body.

Stars.

I’ve admired them since I can’t remember when.

I do remember, however, when the skies were so clear, the moon, so bright, that I would look up and suddenly I wasn’t alone. I could point out every one of the friends I had lost, the lovers I had been deprived of, the little family I had way back when. They were up there, waiting for me. Once, on the clearest, most beautiful night I had ever seen up until then, I heard them calling to me, wishing and wanting and hoping and praying that someday soon we’d be reunited.

And the moon.

Oh, the moon.

It dipped me in hope, sprinkled me with dreams and daydreams alike, coated me with the glow and magic of its craters. I like to think of my scars as my own craters, marks upon my skin that said I had survived the most brutal, painstakingly traumatic experiences. That I had a choice, whether to live or die, and that I didn’t secretly crave the second option. That I didn’t ever wish for relief from those craters. No, no. Of course not. Brush those thoughts away, Lorelei.

But I cannot. Because very quickly those dips of hope, sprinkles of dreams and coatings of magic begin to engulf my being. Drown me in despair. Leave me gasping for air for my lungs that have been entangled in vines and azalea, the overgrowth of the flowers too strong for these organs that refuse to give out. They will not rest, despite having been overused hundreds of times on those shining nights when I would try to call back to my loved ones.

They never responded after that first night, and now I’ve been left to wonder.

To wonder maybe it was just my imagination attempting to blind me.

I will never forget my first love, when I really was seventeen. Emilio Fabio. I spoke Latin fluently, but couldn’t write it. I could hardly read either. He could. I thought it was the most marvelous thing in the world. I thought it was beautiful, the way he spoke to me the scratches and loops written on a rag. He verbalized stories for me, told me things I hadn't thought of before. It was amazing, truly, considering close to none knew how to read at that time. I like to think it was him who inspired my love for reading, rather than my constant overwhelming need to escape.

Either way, reading has become a metaphorical home for me. One that won't die, leave me, or get bombed in some world war or another. A home I don't have to worry about; it'll be there until humanity wishes to wipe out the beauty in culture and diversity of the world. I’ve seen this happen before under different circumstances. It makes me so ashamed of these parasites we call humans. I am not giving enough credit to those who are truly trying to help us, though. I’ve met many of them in my years; they never really last long, despite their attempt to make peace with life. Sometimes it’s really quite sweet and gives you this overwhelming sense of pride, a feeling that things can get better. Typically this hope is replaced with guilt within minutes, however. You’re not doing enough. Make a change in the world, this is the only one you’ll ever know. And so you try. And try. Over and over and over again until you’re worn and tired. But this either feeds that feeling of guilt, sprouts a tiny weed of pride, or digs a deep pit of despair that it’ll never be enough. That we’re beyond repair, that you’ll never be enough. These meek options, you say, are too depressing. So you don’t try again until those options become grander and greater than any other option you’ve ever known at the moment.

Though at this point you’re just spiraling, Lorelei.