Supernova, Fiction
A bed, a dresser, a shoe rack, a cube shelf, and a painting. That is what I have to my name, 8 walls, 2 doors, and a common area shared with strangers.
Beyond that a volleyball court and swimming pool, loud music, lights on balconies, and decorations for the holidays.
A step further and we have apartment complexes, colleges, businesses, store after store, and highways.
Farther and we have lakes and forests, mountains, continents with blimps of light scattered anywhere you could imagine.
My bed, my dresser, my shoe rack, and my cube shelf, are owned by millions of people around the world, objects that are that in the same as my neighbor, yet when the time comes to get rid of the insignificant cheap objects I hold so dear, why can't I let go?
In the grand scheme of things they are nothing, my eight walls are nothing, I may be a star \cast over the continent, but who I am, what I claim as mine, my name, my wants, my desires. They’re looked over without a second glance back. Because my neighbor and I are the same, and they are the same as theirs.
We are insignificantly shiny figures of matter, a supernova ready to explode or become nothing but a void of darkness ready to suck whoever and whatever we can with us. That is what we are.
My home, my small room, a small apartment complex, in a smaller city, of a state, of a continent, we are all a part of my supernova, risky, bright, unpredictable. I suck all of my sacred belongings in, afraid to let them go in case I do explode and become that void of nothing. At least I will have the same materialistic objects as everyone else to take with me.
