(I was stuck for a blog and missed writing fiction and was thinking about that time I drove through the desert at night and this came out)
I used to go outside every night and look at the stars just to make sure they were still there. In the city you sometimes can’t see them; too much light pollution or clouds or you’re just too preoccupied with yourself to even look up. I remember the first time I saw them. The sky was so big above me I could actually see it’s roundness. I was so aware of how tiny I was, sitting on this spinning rock all minuscule and unimportant. And the stars just sang. They sang of life and of questions and I thought that they couldn’t possibly be light travelling millions of miles to get to me because they were so close to my heart. I could reach out at touch them if I tried hard enough.
I stepped outside every night and looked at the black liquid sky above me. The stars sang their usual songs in my head, begging for me to join them. I could not, I told them, because I was here, and they were there. Just reach up they seemed to say just reach up and join us. But I did not reach up because I could not.
Tonight I looked up and the stars said Reach up! Reach up! And for some reason my response did not come. I did not say no, but instead I reached, as far as I could reach, and my hand touched the cold black liquid of the sky and the stars were there, close enough to touch. One was dancing so hard it wedged loose, and I took it from its place and I put it in my pocket.
I could feel the stars saying Come play! Come play! And I turned and looked at the desert, all sad and lonely below me and I lay back in the sky and swam away with the stars.